


Nocturne

by The_Clever_Magpie (Metal_mako_dragon)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Magic, Death Rituals, Horror, M/M, Prophetic Dreams, Rites of Passage, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Spells & Enchantments, Telepathy, Wendigo, Will Graham has a foul mouth, Witches, attempted infanticide, previous suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 96,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24021214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metal_mako_dragon/pseuds/The_Clever_Magpie
Summary: “What did you say?” Will asked breathily, looking over his shoulder.“The umbra of it, following you like a double, tracing your footsteps,” Lecter was talking casually as if they were merely discussing the weather, “I hate to think you would despise yourself so much as to tolerate something so destructive.”“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Will ground out, heart beating loudly in his chest.“I wish we could get past these pleasantries,” Lecter said openly, reaching out with his hand to once more offer a seat, “because from what I have seen you have shown a desperate intelligence trapped beneath the shame of your sui generis,” Will could hear the words, but his eyes were trained on the lips that said them, watching, waiting, for a sign of falsity that refused to come; Hannibal Lecter stared at him without compunction or censure, “I would like to know you, Will, if you would let me.”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 96
Kudos: 195





	1. Twine

**Author's Note:**

> I have to admit, I've been binge watching a lot, I mean a lot, of True Blood. So last night I had some inspiration and this popped out. Please enjoy.

The room was full of people; noisy, busy, _moving like a hive._ Before him was the table, long, dark wood. Upon it was the body, _Melinda Inman was her name, not a body, a person_. Closing his eyes didn’t help. _Christ, I can’t hear myself think_. The hand he raised to rub at his aching right temple was shaking.

“Jack? _Jack_.”

Will Graham turned to find the man he had asked for standing against the wall, eyebrow raised and phone at his ear. Jack caught his eye and raised his hand, one finger up. Will ground his teeth and tried to reign his anger in tight.

“You asked me here, Crawford,” Will muttered loudly, “will you get everyone the hell out of here..?”

“I want them by one o’clock,” Jack was speaking into the phone, trying his best to ignore everything Will said, “no later, understand?”

“Jack I swear to god...”

“Good, that’s what I wanted to hear,” suddenly the man smiled, hanging up as the coroners walked in.

“Don’t even think about it,” Will snapped at the two men, making them stop short; he looked to Jack and didn’t care that his stare was clearly murderous, “if you let them in to mess with the scene then you let me the hell out. I’ve seen enough,” Will felt his voice break as he swallowed, blinking, “I’ve seen enough of this shit in my life, I don’t need any more of it in my fucking skull. Do you want my help or not? Because if not then all you’ve done is serve me up a plate of nightmares for the week.”

There was a moment of silence, only ruined by the feet and murmur of the crime scene analysts working the house. Eventually Crawford stood up, pocketed his phone and nodded to the coroners.

“Give us a minute, will you boys?” the coroners left looking uncertain, and Jack closed the door after them, “Good enough?”

“Not good enough,” Will said, “and you know it. I want everyone out.”

“Everyone huh?”

“Including you,” Will crossed his arms and couldn’t help feeling huddled in; his nerves were jangling like sleigh bells, “I can’t have anyone near. You’ll screw with my methods.”

“Remind me,” Crawford narrowed his eyes, “just how that works again?”

“Fuck you, that’s how it works,” Will responded flatly; when Crawford opened his mouth with a frown Will leapt in, “don’t start you son of a bitch. You brought me here, you asked me to _help_. I’m helping. But don’t expect special fucking treatment, understand?”

It was easy to be nasty. Will knew nasty. Nasty was familiar, nasty was an old friend. Just like Crawford, only nasty was easier to deal with. Finally Jack cracked, smiling once more. He opened the door and was half way out before he turned back.

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you,” he said.

“Not an iota, now get everyone out. I mean it Jack, you know the rules you’re only getting one shot at this.”

Crawford nodded, his smile fading to a look Will knew well. _Resigned_ . The door closed behind him and Will stood stock still, listening. He could feel the house loosing its tight grip on the truth as each pair of feet and camera flash and analysis instrument was trotted out the front door. After five minutes Will walked over to the window, _a large bay window, facing west, it would have caught the sun in the evening_ , and closed the curtains. They slid with ease, making a pleasant scraping sound.

“Ok,” he said to himself, taking a deep breath, “ _ok_.”

Turning to face the table, Will let the pendulum swing.

 _Once_.

 _It had started at the door_ . Will walked steadily to the door Crawford had left minutes before and looked down. There was the first spray of blood, dark now against the door frame and the floor. Something heavy. _He bludgeoned her and she went down in one._ No more spray, but he could follow the drag lines with his feet.

“You dumped her here,” Will said softly as he looked beside the chair at the head of the table, at the pooling blood on the floor, “because you didn’t care about who she was. No respect.”

 _Twice_.

The chairs that were now set neatly back by the table were on the floor. He could see it in the scratch marks on the floorboards, where they had fallen and been dragged. _She fought back, didn’t make this easy._ Either the man they were after was very powerful, or there were two of them.

 _Thrice_.

They had wasted no time. Brought her up onto the table and got to work. One heavy stab to the chest and they had opened her like a tin can. Will looked down at the woman on the table, on her back with her arms and legs splayed. She was pale, so very pale, with long jet black hair all in a tussle. _She had died quick, from the shock._ _Her eyes had glazed and the pain didn’t register, which would have been a mercy_. The assailant or assailants had worked fast, taking everything they could, emptying her body cavity until there was nothing left but ribs. Then they had scrawled some half-assed pentagram on the wall in her blood, which when Will looked closer had _six_ points. So it was really a star of David. Will sneered at the crude drawing and shook his head, looking back to the victim, his eyes softening.

He knew he was ready. He could smell it in the air, a sort of ionised, metallic scent. Pulling out the chair at her head Will sat heavily. It made his skin itch. He licked his lips. _She was served before him, like a meal_. This was nothing so tasty, not a work of art, there was no design here. It was a fraud.

“They killed you for money,” he said as he lifted his hands and placed them on both sides of her face; her eyes were dark, lifeless, “I’m so sorry.”

He licked his lips again. Wasn’t supposed to, hell he knew that. Wasn’t supposed to use it, but it was reliable and it was foolproof and...reflexively he took a deep breath and tried to steel himself. With only a moment of hesitation he reached out and touched the clammy, cold skin of her cheeks with both palms.

 _A kick like an electric shock, his body was rigid, he could feel the blood in his veins running double time, his heart straining to keep up, and there, there in front of him, if he looked up, just looked up there stood the thing, oh god the thing, the_ thing was looking right at him!

The next thing he knew he was out the front door and down the steps, rushing as fast as he could without passing out. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, the leaves on the trees rustling like jingling bells, the eyes rising to watch him, the sound of voices, birds, cars. He thought he could hear his name but it was garbled, strange. When two hands grabbed hold of him he stopped, rigid, huffing, gasping, shaking.

“Christ, Will, what the hell is wrong with you? Is that blood on your hands, shit what did I tell you about touching the corpses..?” Crawford was muttering in irritation.

“I saw it,” he managed to choke out, grabbing Jack by the lapels, smearing blood across his fancy grey suit, “I fucking _saw it_ Jack, jesus I saw it!”

“Calm down, ok, just calm the hell down. Here, sit here,” Will felt himself bump into something and sit without looking, jerking his gaze around to see that he’d reached the cavalcade of black SUV’s and was now sitting in the back seat, “I’ll get you some water.”

“No, don’t,” Will shook his head, “I need to get it down before it fades, quick for fuck’s sake get me a pen!”

As Crawford stood, legs crossed as he leaned against the side of the car and spoke on the phone in a subdued manner, Will wondered why the hell Jack put up with him. His hands scribbled furiously, using the sight in his mind to form the picture, let it take shape. To be fair, he thought to himself, Jack was the one who always asked for help with the strange cases, but then Will knew he couldn’t refuse. He shouldn’t be so hard on Crawford, he knew that. Still, it didn’t make any of this easier on either of them.

In his fizzy, shaken state, Will didn’t have the nerve to be polite. Instead, when he was done, he simply shoved the clipboard out the door and waited. After he heard Jack end his phone call, he felt the clipboard leave his hand and managed, after blinking to clear his eyes of the last of the vision, to look at Jack standing in the sunlight.

“You’re sure this is what you saw,” Crawford asked, looking sceptical.

“Believe me,” Will muttered, “I wish I wasn’t as sure as I am.”

“Ok,” Jack was nodding, rubbing at his face, “and this is what killed her?”

Shaking his head convulsively Will knew Jack was getting angry at him. He raised his hand and swallowed.

“No, it didn’t kill her,” Will said as he looked down at the drawing in Jack’s hands, _of the ebony figure, tall as a man, fingers like claws, eyes of milky white and, upon its head a rack of fine antlers, jutting up into the sky like a testament_ , “it didn’t kill her, but it’s the reason she’s dead,” Will looked up, straight into Jack’s eyes and knew that the man believed him, that in that moment all the bullshit was pushed aside and Jack _believed him_ , “it’s eating them, Jack. It’s eating them.”

* * *

The cup of coffee made a dull thunk as it was placed in front of him with little care. It spilled over the side, a puddle on the shiny tabletop. The sight made him itch to find a kitchen towel and mop it up.

“Drink it,” he was instructed, though Jack wasn’t looking at him when he said it, tapping something out on his tablet, “it’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t think caffeine is a good idea right now,” Will said, pushing the plastic cup away and ignoring the sour look of the man who had brought it to him; he hitched up the blanket around his shoulders and shivered.

FBI Headquarters in Baltimore wasn’t exactly the most hospitable place he could think of to be right about then. A big block of concrete built in the seventies, with no shape or fashion to it. More a function than a building, its lack of tact extended to the inside too. Plastic chairs, old paint and chipboard. The break room they were stationed in now came across more like an underground tomb, no windows, no working air conditioning. Will felt buried.

“Couldn’t find anything on the database like what you described,” said the young woman at the table next to him, sitting on her laptop, bright eyes focused, long dark hair waving blue in the artificial light, “you’re sure of what you saw?”

“Unfortunately,” Will swallowed and shrugged.

“Oh, Beverly by the way,” she said, looking up with a smile and a cynical crinkle to her eyes.

“Will Graham,” he said mechanically, unable to meet her eyes.  
  
“Yeah, I know.”

“Ok.”

“I’m Brian,” the surly man who’d brought him his coffee said, looking around a little irritatedly, “not that anyone has cared to ask.”

“You’re supposed to introduce _yourself_ ,” Beverly said, sipping her vending machine drink with one hand, tapping on her keyboard with the other, “not be asked,” she returned her attention to Will who felt his hackles rise at the shift, “couldn’t have been any of the usual suspects? A monster we already have in the rolodex?”

“No,” Will said succinctly.

“You can be _that_ sure?” he asked, eyes narrowing, “so how do these visions work? Can you control it or..?”

“Enough digging Katz,” Jack broke in, putting his device down on the table with a clack, “when Will says he’s sure, then he’s sure. But what about our suspects? There was a pentagram at the scene," Jack observed, picking up a printed picture of the wall, he tried to hand it to Will but was rebuffed.

"No, there was an arts and crafts project," Will said sarcastically; when Jack sighed and Brian frowned Will rolled his eyes, "are you serious? You've never seen misdirection before? Either these are the worst satanists in history or they didn't realise that pentagrams only have five points."

"Good point," Beverly said, smiling wryly as she took the photo from Jack.

"Or they were in a hurry," Brian offered, "were scared and got it wrong?"

“It saw me,” Will blurted out suddenly, hating the pressure of the room; he could feel Jack staring, like heat against his skin. When he looked up Jack was there, right in his personal space, “ _back off_ ,” he spat, eyes dark.

It took a moment, but Crawford obeyed, though he looked put out by the order. Will could tell the others were watching him carefully. Probably hadn’t ever seen anyone speak to their boss like this, Will thought. He took a breath and scratched at his jaw.

“To answer your question,” Will said, motioning to Beverly who was watching him with intent curiosity, “it’s not like a vision, per se. More like, seeing through another’s eyes. It’s not easy to control but I can, if I try. Other times it’s just flashes, short, a little longer sometimes, there doesn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason. Skin to skin contact makes it easier to find what I need, focus in.”

“I heard you can see the future,” Brian spoke up, voice still tinged with resentment.

Will gave him a withering look and continued, “it’s not a reliable thing, like I said. But there’s one thing that I can be sure of,” he looked to Jack, “no one, and I mean no one has ever looked back at me from the other end. It saw me Jack, I swear to god.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t just looking at the victim?”

“It wasn’t even in the room, weren’t you listening to me?” Will scoffed, “I told you it didn’t kill that woman, but it made sure someone else did. Harvested her for everything it wanted. It’s residue was thick on the walls, the floor, like resin running down a tree, hardening into the reality of the room. It was never there but it was... _there_. And it was fucking looking at me! It saw me,” Will knew he looked dangerous because Jack’s mouth was a thin line and, despite her friendly introduction, Beverly’s hand was hovering near her fire arm, “and now that’s my fucking problem, isn’t it. You put me in this situation Jack, what are you going to do about protection?”

“We don’t even know yet if what you saw was real,” Jack said, knowing Will wouldn’t like it if his resigned expression was anything to go by.

“Oh fuck you,” Will said with a tut, getting up and folding the blanket angrily into a neat square before putting it onto his seat, “I should have known the one-way-street policy still stood. If you’re done with me?”

“Not quite,” Jack said, jerking his eyebrows up and bringing them down as he tapped his fingers on the tabletop, “but perhaps that’s enough for one day.”

“Good,” Will said with an acid smile, “because I’ll need time to reaffirm the hexes at my house before it gets dark.”

“I’ll have a uniformed officer posted outside your house for the week, ok?” Jack said, raising both hands palms facing outwards.  
  
“Fat lot of good that’ll do, don’t bother,” Will said with a raised brow, “see you tomorrow?”

“You bet,” Jack was laughing softly as Will left, waving away Brian’s outrage and Beverly’s concern, “he’s fine. Don’t worry, he’ll adjust. He’s always rough at the start. Come on, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

* * *

Thick with snow striped red by the sunset, his little ship on the sea anchored deep in the Wolf Trap wilderness bumped into view as his truck meandered up the driveway. Parking on the crunching, squeaking ground, Will turned off the engine and sat back with a sigh. He didn’t close his eyes, partly because he was worried he’d fall asleep right where he was, and partly because he was worried about what was lurking there.

It had been a long time since he’d worked with Crawford, and he was beginning to remember why.

“Stupid brat,” Will bit at his bottom lip, “aren’t you. Always looking to see, even what you’re not supposed to.”

The twilight was bringing on the freeze. Will worked quickly, walking his perimeter with the flash-light he’d grabbed from the trunk, making sure his charms were still intact. Most were buried beneath the snow, small trees with scraps of rag tied tight in place, still rust red, another the beak of a crow with the eye of a deer secreted inside, an antler with a carven inscription in rough runes. He knew they wouldn’t stop anything that went bump in the night, but it would let him know what was coming at least.

When he finally stepped over the threshold he was cold, tired, hungry and his jeans were soaked. He closed the door and murmured a quick incantation with his palm against the wood, drawing a simple unicursal hexagram with his forefinger. When he turned back to the room it was to find an array of paws, wagging tails and licking tongues to greet him.

“What, you were all asleep huh? Like me to believe that,” Will said wryly, smiling as he offered strokes and scratches for his throng of mongrels, “come on, it’s dinner time. I know, I know,” he said as the barks started, “I ran late, ok? I’m sorry.”

Seven cans of dog food, one microwave dinner, one shower and one cup of hot chocolate later Will found himself in bed, the glare of the television the only thing lighting the room as the dogs settled, fidgeting for position on the double bed duvet.

“Hey now,” Will frowned sternly as Buster the Jack Russell let a snap out at Angel the Bernese cross as she turned round and round on her spot, “no fighting, or you’re all in your beds on the floor. Got it?”

Buster looked at him with his alert little eyes before putting his head down between his paws, gaze still swivelling back and forth between his companions. Will itched his nose, taking a breath and trying to focus on the crap playing on his television. Buster’s insecurity always made him nervous. He was the most astute of his pack. When Buster was alert, it meant he should be too.

Sleep came fast and sudden. One minute he was checking his clock, the next he was out. Which made the reverse so much more jarring.

The scream of a corvid pecked at his mind, Will jerked awake so quickly that he sent dogs scattering. In his head it still called, _cawing, cawing, cawing;_ an alarm. Then the braying of a stag, loud and low and echoing across the moor. Without hesitation he ran to his closet and yanked it open, grabbing the shotgun there, already loaded. Will hissed out ‘ _quiet, be quiet_ ’ until the dogs stopped their yelping. On bare feet he hurried out of the room and padded down the stairs. The darkness was all encompassing, caressing his pale skin. It spoke to him. The movements of the air, flowing soft as ether, clean and reliable. Closing his eyes didn’t make a blind bit of difference to his sight as he raised the gun. But it did allow him to _see_.

_Left, now, the window._

Instinct was a double edged sword, Will knew. It was the reason he was a social pariah, an outcast, to be feared and used more than anything else. But in the same notion it was the reason that, when he fired both barrels of his gun into the window pane, sending glass shattering into the air, that the flash of the gunshot revealed the man that had been making to lift the window and break in fly back with a yell, screaming.

Only it wasn’t in time to show him the second; an arm around his neck puled him back off his feet, choking and suddenly, screamingly overwhelmed by the images, _fast, flashing, fierce and terrified, blood and gore thick up his arms, eyes watering from the smell, the sulphurous stench, but he cut deeper, deeper, all so this wasn’t him next time on the slab_. Will tried to gasp but could barely breathe, his eyes rolling up as the man’s fear and rage started to take over.

“What’d you do, you fucking witch!” the man was shouting, “Johnny?! Johnny you ok? Shit!”

Then a yell, sudden and pained, and Will fell forwards with an involuntary shove, hacking and coughing on the ground. His muscles shook, convulsing, but he could hear the snarling and the barking now as the flashes faded.

_Right hand, push out, gun. Lamp, table, beyond._

It was in his hand and the light was on, showcasing what was left of the man who had broken into his home. Will managed to get slowly to his feet, looking down. His tan pitbull Lenny had the man’s neck in his jaws, shaking him roughly. At the other end Rusty his shepherd cross had the man’s ankle, teeth sunk in deep enough to show tendon. Around him the others were yapping and barking, teeth bared. The floor was beginning to pool.

“Enough,” Will coughed, rubbing at his throat, “ _hey_ , enough,” he whistled, garnering eyes and ears. It took a couple of snaps of the fingers to get Lenny to release. The dogs came to his call, surrounding him tightly, protectively. He reached out and caressed Lenny’s head as he came to sit by him, Rusty not taking her eyes from the man on the floor, “ _stay_ now, ok?”

Will decided to keep the gun, just in case. As he walked forwards shakily his foot ended up in the red, the liquid seeping in between his toes. He felt his lip twitch in disgust, eyes narrowing. Hunkering down, looking into the face of a man no more than twenty, tanned, green eyes glazing over, Will cocked his head. This close he could hear the gurgle in the man’s throat as it pumped blood freely. Smell the terror, the clamour and the dark, dark sulphur.

“Who sent you?” he asked calmly.

The man’s eyes widened, pained. He tried to shake his head but it only made him pale, choking.

“Did they send you here to kill me?” Will asked tightly.

“..N-augh...” the man tried to speak, his lips spattered with red, “no-ach….ch-choll...cht y-y...”

Another hitching, guttural breath and then he was dead. Will wished that the deep breath he took wasn’t tainted with the stench of rust. The man had been left staring at him, eyes forever forwards even though they saw nothing. Hesitating, only once, reached out to touch his eyelids closed.

 _There, like a flash, a smile behind black lips_.

Will jerked his hand back as if the man were a furnace he had touched with his bare hands. Standing as quickly as he could Will made his way to the window. Outside, in a pile of glass and blood was an older man, bald and wearing a denim jacket. The holes ripped into his torso were only visible as patches of red in his t-shirt. He was sure there wasn’t a need to check the man’s pulse. Will had seen enough death to know it on sight.

“ _Will, this better be good, it’s three in the morning,_ ” Jack said when he finally picked up the phone.

“I have two dead men in my house,” Will said, sitting on his couch with Buster in his lap and Rusty licking at his bloody toes, “couldn’t send someone out here to get them, could you?”

* * *

“I don’t need a doctor.”

To be fair, Will knew Crawford’s frustration was cut with guilt and that it was making him act out because of it, but it didn’t mean he had to pander to it. Will stared at the EMT from behind his glasses and waited. The young woman, blonde hair tied back in a tight ponytail, just smiled.

“It’s just routine, Mr. Graham,” she said.

“So is an autopsy,” Will said morbidly; when she reached out he shifted back, “I don’t like to be _touched_.”

“I see,” she said, still irritatingly chipper, “then can I just do some checks for concussion? And if you can just pop this on your finger and your arm, I’ll check your BP and HR.”

“Whatever makes you happy,” Will sighed.

It was all over quicker than he presumed it would be. Jack was the grease in the cogs of the local P.D., none of which seemed to be taking too kindly to both the FBI presence and to Will himself. But then he already knew that the authorities were wary of him, some definitely prejudice to the extent of open hostility. Most just muttered behind their lips, and kept their nasty comments in their heads. Not enough that Will couldn’t catch most of it, camera flashes of vile thoughts, flashes of what they saw him as.

“And here I thought you were gun-shy,” Jack was saying when Will blinked, tuning back into the conversation; the blond EMT was gone, and Will found himself concerned that he didn’t remember it happening.  
  
“Since when,” Will said grouchily, rolling his eyes when he found Jack watching him intently; _jumping images, seeing himself dead, seeing himself murdered, guilt, pain_ , “Christ, Jack will you keep your fucking thoughts to yourself. I’m in no state.”

“Sorry,” Jack, looked away, “look, I’m just glad you’re ok.”

“Sure, sure,” Will nodded, waving him away, “I can take care of myself.”

“Unless you’ve grown some canines I don’t know about it looks like your mutts might have had the last say on that.”

“Don’t you touch them,” Will said darkly, “they did what’s natural.”  
  
“No one’s touching anything,” Jack sighed, “which is actually what I need to talk to you about...”

“Alright, yes, I touched him, ok? I did and it wasn’t fucking worth it, you’re right, just...” Will swallowed his words as they ran away from him like boulders down a mountainside, “shit.”

The frozen air was starting to nip at his skin. Will rubbed at his upper arms and took in the sight of his house, surrounded by flashing lights, cops and analysts walking in and out of the front door, people inside taking swabs of blood, coroners carrying out the bodies. It wasn’t the first time, but then that didn’t exactly make it any better.

“Do you want to go inside?” Jack asked softly.

Will shook his head, looking down at the wooden boards of his porch.

“Not right now. Not right now, I...” Will swallowed, closing his eyes; it was difficult to voice mainly because he was trying his best to ignore the shock and fear creeping into his system, vines of ivy strangling the tree, “it was the same.”

“What was?”

“I...touched his eyes,” Will said, hurrying on as Jack took a breath and shook his head, “no, I didn’t want to see, he was _looking_ at me, ok? I'd just...seen him die and he was looking right at me. I only wanted to close his eyes but I saw it again.”

“The same creature from before?”

Nodding, Will licked his lips and felt them chapped from the cold, “I mean I think so. It felt the same, I think. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it’s not like last time. I don’t think they came here to hurt me.”

“Could have fooled me,” Crawford snorted, “you haven’t seen what they had in their truck.”

“I can guess,” Will said sourly, “but still, I don’t know, I don’t...christ. Look, can we do this tomorrow? I’m really tired and I don’t even know where the hell I’m going to sleep tonight.”

“The Registry is going to be asking some interesting questions about this. But don’t worry,” Jack said, looking as if he wanted to try pushing for more but, eventually, gave up, “I got you covered. Come on.”

“But the dogs...” Will said, frowning.

“They can go too. Pretty sure she told me she didn’t mind.”

* * *

It felt like an age since he had driven up the long lane lined by elms, catching the tips of the dawn light rising over the horizon. It must have been three years or so, Will thought as he sat in the back of Jack’s SUV, gently pushing Lenny back into the boot as he tried once more to jump up over the back seat to sit with him. Outside the countryside farmland rolled past, rolling waves of mud, runnels for later potatoes. It was a little difficult to struggle into his thick, black cardigan while he was still buckled in but Will felt exposed. As they rolled up to a familiar house Will pulled on his black fleece hat and tried his best to keep his sharp tongue in his mouth.

When he stepped out of the car Will shook his arms and stretched. His shoulders ached. It was difficult to ignore the pull at the skin across his throat. He wondered if it would bruise. While he stared at the rising sun he heard a door open, looking over reflexively at the noise. The first thing that emerged was a medium sized brown and white dog, running down over fresh snow leaving little dotted paw prints. Will grinned, squatting down as the dog reached him, ruffling her face as she licked at his chin.

“Hey Peanut,” he laughed, allowing himself the small, offered respite.

“Glad she remembers you.”

Looking up was easier with the barrier of a happy, wriggling dog between them. She was watching him like she’d just seen a dear in the woods and was worried that it would run if she moved too fast. Will’s face set, jaded.

“Hi Alana.”

“Hi Will.”

“I’ll leave you two to it then,” Jack said, opening the boot and spilling dogs everywhere, all running over to greet Peanutbutter with sniffs and play bows and sprinting around, “you’ve cost me a lot of paperwork Graham.”

“Sorry my almost being murdered inconvenienced you so badly,” Will said dryly.

“Try not to pile up any more bodies, ok?” he joked, only Will could see it wasn’t really a joke, and he felt his sarcastic armour fail him, his face falling. Instead of showing it he stuck his face in Peanut’s ruff and scratched her flank as the dog leaned into him happily, panting, “I’m leaving Jerry and Fiona here,” he said thumbing towards the car driving up behind them, “for security. Alana, thank you for helping out.”

“Anytime, Jack.”

As the SUV left Will started to feel trapped. You agreed to this, he told himself sternly. Still, not like I had much choice. He would have heard her approach if the dogs hadn’t been making such a fuss. Will looked up to see Alana Bloom standing over him, hands in the pockets of her puffy purple coat, glossy dark hair loose and a little messy. She had bags under her eyes and, without her usual bright lipstick her face looked pale. It was difficult not to fall back into the routine like he’d never left.

“Sorry we woke you up,” he said, licking at the inside of his teeth, “I...uh, and thanks for this.”

“Can we do this inside?” she asked, sniffing, “it’s freezing out here.”

“Right, sure,” Will stood, rubbing his hands together.

The décor hadn’t changed too much since his last visit. Warm honey walls and oak furniture. Old fashioned tiles on the walls of the kitchen. Varnished floorboards with rugs dotted here and there. It suited her, he thought, all yellows and oranges and soft and safe. Zesty but comforting. Will found himself herding the dogs into the back room past the living room, all decked out in blankets and pillows.  
  
“Be good, ok? You’re guests,” Will told them as he shrugged out of his coat, the dogs watching him with cocked ears; he noticed Rusty still had red stains on her muzzle and rubbed at his chin, hoping Alana wouldn’t notice, “And no accidents. I’ll be up at seven to take you out.”

She was waiting for him as he went to hang up his jacket, boiling a kettle on the stove.

“Peppermint tea, right?” she asked without really asking, a formality.  
  
“Right,” Will nodded, not having the heart to tell her he couldn’t really stomach anything right then, “Alana...”

“I made up the guest bedroom,” she interrupted, “the one at the top of the stairs on the right?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Will nodded, frowning, “you’re not even going to ask?”

“Is there a point? I don’t remember ever getting a straight answer from you before.”

“I killed a man tonight,” Will said.

The kettle began to boil, whistling. Alana took it off and placed it on a cork mat, her back to him. Leaning forwards on the counter she let her head hang. The soft lighting mixed with the red in the sunrise, setting the room on fire.

“Jack said you were attacked in your home.”

“I don’t know what they were planning,” Will shrugged, “nothing good. They had a lot of rope in their boot, and some other things designed to incapacitate someone...like me,” he cleared his throat when Alana turned around, looking grim, “uh, look I’m sorry about this, I don’t want to put you in any danger.”

“I’m a big girl, Will, I know the risks.”

“Well, thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” she said sleepily, pouring out two mugs of hot water, tea bags floating inside like little swirling pyramids, “here.”

“I won’t be able to drink it,” Will admitted, amazed that he was falling back to the natural honesty he always allowed himself with her.  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” she smiled softly.  
  
“Ok.”

“Will?”

“I think I should get some sleep.”

“Are you ok?”

Looking up was hard. Looking her in the eye was worse. Will fidgeted but forced himself to bear it. _Memories came unbidden and for a moment he wasn’t sure if they were his or hers, deep inside the asylum, curling down inside his own head to hid_ _e_ _from the blood on his hands, retracting so far that his eyes were nothing but blank shells trying their best to keep the images out, the thoughts that weren’t his own, and she was there, and she was talking, and she made sense, and she knew what to say, what threads to pull in order to unravel all of the wool Will had willingly pulled over his own eyes_.

“Not really,” he said, voice small, “I...don’t know why I involved myself in this all over again. I knew something like this might happen and yet I just, I don’t know.”

“You’ll hate me if I tell you this,” she said before blowing on her tea, taking a sip, “but I knew you would come back.”

“Oh yeah?” he said flatly, “Part of your diagnosis?”

“Call it a hunch,” she shrugged, “being your psychiatrist, predicting you was always the most difficult thing,” she smiled tiredly, “I got really good at it.”

“Wish I could say the same,” Will said sourly; he put his tea down on the breakfast bar to his right, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his face. He could feel the wetness on his cheeks, “it’s bad, Alana. It’s really bad this time.”

“Oh Will,” she said, her face falling from guarded to sympathy in a second.

“I think I really fucked up,” as he spoke Will felt the night creep up on him, the shock, the fear, the adrenaline, the realisation; when the tears began to run down his face it was all he could do to sit down and let them. When Alana pushed away from the counter and came towards him he shook his head, mouth mute.

“Touching bad again, huh?” she said, sounding guilty and disappointed.

“Yeah,” Will said, a little choked, “been bad again for a while.”  
  
“How come you never called me?” she asked, standing beside him as close as he could bear, “It’s what I’m here for.”

“Not everything can be fixed,” Will said, rubbing at his cheeks with the back of his right hand, “patched up, yes, but eventually the threads fray. It’s easier to learn to deal with how it really is.”

“Ok. Ok, I understand,” she said, looking a little lost, “I think you were right about that bed. Rest will do you the world of wonders.”

* * *

Tomorrow came as eggs and bacon with a side of black coffee. He had walked the dogs in payment for the bed and breakfast services rendered. Alana looked like she could use more sleep, and Will knew from looking in the mirror as he brushed his teeth that he could use a week’s worth before he looked normal again.

Still, things moved forwards, not backwards. Soon he found himself being bundled into Alana’s sedan, leaving her neighbour from one farm over, Jackie, to dog sit. The Yews looked less mysterious in the daylight than they had the night before.

“This your family home?” he asked as they reached the end of the driveway.

“Uh, yeah, my grandparents built it,” she said a little cagily as she signalled and turned out.

“Did they plant the trees too?” he looked over and found her nodding, “they’re warding trees. They keep out evil things.”

“Sure,” Alana said with a chuff of laughter, “and four leaf clovers are lucky. Some things are just superstition.”

“I’m almost amazed you can say that with me in your car,” Will said with a raised brow; Alana cleared her throat, “I was just trying to make you feel better.”

Returning to HQ was like some nasty, recurring nightmare. Will knew what came next. Litanies of questions, investigations, prying eyes. It was a tale as old as time, or at least as old as Will’s teenage years, when he had finally realised that the gift he had was a curse more than a blessing, that nothing could stop it, not alcohol, not drugs, legal or illegal, could touch him, and that he couldn’t touch anyone else either. That the inside of his head wasn’t his own any more and never would be again. A slow decent into the darker places the world had to offer had ripped a rift in his life, right through his home, _his Matron, his sisters._ Leaving them behind and moving to Baltimore had been the only respite he was capable of scrounging.

“Did Jack ask you to come along too?” Will asked while they waited to be cleared for entry, the young man at the desk inserting temp keycards into a reader while he typed up their passes.  
  
“I volunteered actually,” Alana, now dressed in her immaculate business attire of blue shirt and brown pencil skirt, black tights and brown boots; her hair was now a set of liquid waves, parted at the side, “thought you could maybe use some backup.”

“Always,” Will shrugged, “but I just need to check, if I ask you to leave the room then you’ll do it.”

“Depends,” she said, thanking the young man at reception with a smile as she was handed her pass, clipping it to her shirt pocket, “are you trying to pretend to me that you can still handle things, or is it to protect me from things you don’t want me to see?”

“Both,” Will took his pass carefully, making sure he didn’t touch the man’s fingers before walking strictly ahead, not waiting for Alana to catch up. Not for the first time in his life he was upset at himself for not stuffing a spare pair of gloves in his pocket.

As they walked the length of the fourth floor Will kept his eyes down, making sure not to pay attention to any prying eyes and his keep breathing even. Shoving his hand in his pocket he found his thick rimmed glasses and fumbled them on, taking a breath as the world became framed, compartmentalised down into two windows he could look through. The sounds of the jumbled office became smoother, less chaotic. He was able to be more sure that what he heard was in his ears, not his head, and thoughts and images were filtered out.

“You ok?” Alana asked softly as they stood outside Jack’s office and she knocked politely on the door.

Will couldn’t contain the sudden laugh that built up in his chest, breaking out in a warped smile and bright eyes, “You crack me up sometimes, you know that?”

‘ _Come in_ ,’ came the muffled voice from beyond the door; Will took the initiative and turned the handle, walking in first.

Grey, vertical office blinds, rough brown carpet and mahogany wood. Jack’s office was like a time capsule, and for a moment Will thought he could believe it was three years prior, and he was being brought in for the first time, dragged from his teaching post two floors down in the auditorium, to be put to work on something much more front line than just talking about the occult.

Only, right now, something was throwing a spanner in the works of his nostalgia. And Will, tired, shaken, close to the edge as he was, couldn’t keep his mouth from saying what his brain was thinking.

“Who the hell is this?” he asked sternly, pointing to the man seated in front of Jack’s desk.

“Will, let’s not get off to a rocky start,” Jack said amicably, though Will could see the look in his eye that said ‘ _don’t make a scene’,_ “this is Doctor Hannibal Lecter, he’s come here at my request.”

He heard the door closing behind him, turning to see Alana standing there like a warden. Will felt his instincts firing, hackles rising. When he turned back to the desk, the man there was rising from his chair; to Will it seemed more like he unfolded from his casual, crossed leg posture, standing elegantly and offering his hand.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said with a thick, sibilant accent, his eyes heavy lidded, almost hiding the maroon shade of his iris, the long line of his nose leading down to cupids lips that Will watched move as he would a small animal that scurried into the bushes and hid, eyes peering outwards into the light. It took a moment to blink and look away, swallowing.

“I guess Jack hasn’t told you,” Will said tightly, “I don’t do handshakes.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Lecter said, retracting his hand, “I am sure I was told, but formalities are rather instinctual. Shall we sit?”

"Are you from the Registry?" Will asked coldly, "Because I am not interested in an escort."

All he received was a smile that reached all the way up into maroon eyes, as if he'd told an exceptionally crafted joke that no one understood but the man standing before him. Will shook his head and crossed his arms.

“I'm not agreeing to anything until I get an explanation,” Will said, looking at Jack while the man leaned back in his chair and sighed.

“This case has become rather...complex,” Jack began, “you know that. And you know that my team can’t fully support you, nor can I afford to have you only as a consult. I want you to come on the team full time until this is resolved. Your abilities are intrinsic to how I plan to run this investigation. So, after speaking with Doctor Bloom,” Jack motioned to Alana, and Will couldn’t bring himself to look at her just then, “I decided to bring Doctor Lecter in. He’ll be your psychiatric support.”

“I’ve already got one,” Will said succinctly, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards Alana.

“I’m not...” Will looked at her over his shoulder, seeing her hesitation; she smiled loosely with the right side of her mouth, “I can’t offer you what you need for this Will. Hannibal is more than capable, he was my mentor. I really think you should give him a chance.”

“...You mean you won’t,” Will said, looking away, his skin suddenly feeling as if tiny insects were crawling there. The upset tried to spread to his eyes but he wouldn’t let it. Finally the quiet room became like a cell and Will reached up to take off his glasses, rub at the bridge of his nose. When he looked back to Lecter the man was watching him calmly, inscrutable, “no lies.”

“Of course,” Lecter nodded.

“No manipulation, no secrets, no judgement.”

“I believe I can offer that.”

“Good,” Will said, pushing all the ticking, sickening hurt down deep, back into its cage; he jerked his head towards Lecter, “he’ll do. Now I’m going downstairs. Maybe some of the corpses will be happier to see me.”


	2. Bird's Nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any translations needed are at the end of the chapter

Drums, and an off key note playing. Hovering in the air like the hum of insects wings. He was awake, he was sure, but he didn’t remember falling asleep. The sheets were light, trilling away as they fell from his skin. His feet felt as if they were not his own, stepping lightly across the floor, knots of the wood against the soles of his feet.  
  
Outside the world was painted silver in the night. The moon was full, floating above, rippling as if staring up into a vast, dark ocean. His feet carried him forwards, across the porch and down onto the rough dirt, the sharp sticks and jutting stones. Part of him was sure his feet were bleeding, but still they drew him onwards. Around him the air was still, warm, comforting like a blanket.

The noise grew louder, stronger as he walked out into the snow. The green bushes looked black in the moonlight, the trees hiding the thicket like a jewel. Walking into the wood seemed the only choice. _Louder, louder_. Leaves trailed across his naked thighs, sticky willows gripping at his ankles. Pushing forwards, _forwards, forwards._

Then there, through the trees, all collected together like watchers in the dark, _something moved_. He stopped, took a step back, felt the greenery at his legs grip and pull, urging him onwards. The forest moved, swaying though there was no wind. Something was wrong, something was festering. It took a moment of bravery to step forwards, then a step of foolishness to continue.

And then it was there. A halo of grass, glinting in the light of the moon, emerged from the thicket. There, in the centre, stood the stag. Proud and black, shivering it’s feather-fur, long neck extended as it reared up on hind legs and brayed into the night, a long, hollow, deep shaking note that ended in a high pitched whine, antlers praising the air. At its foot was a clamping trap, horrible metal jaws gripping its leg, blood running over its hoof.

“ _No,_ ” was all he could sob.

Looking down was _instinct._ A pair of ebony hands sliding around, across his chest and waist. His head swam, breath hitching, feeling the claws scratch, gouge, leave bloody runnels on his flesh as they closed in, pulling him _closer_ , _closer, deeper, deeper._ His breath stuck, his fear rose into his throat, choking his words shut. His head fall back, lolling against a neck, a shoulder, eyes looking up to the sky as seen through a set of spiky, black tree branches. The hands began to explore. He shivered, gasping, unable to move. Trying to look, trying to see, it was impossible, it was terrifying. The world began to shift and slide, tipped on its edge as everything began to tumble, drifting, crashing, escalating. He wished he could make it stop. His body paid him no heed. _The hands manipulated him, tracing the lines of his desire._

Then the black lips opened and placed themselves by his ear.

“ _Will, are you awake in there_?”

Knocking, each pound as if it were against his own head. Will jerked from the grip of the dream as if he’d fallen from a height. Sitting up was like landing on something soft...until the hangover kicked in. He found himself tangled in his sheets, letting out a sound of frustration as the ache in his pounding temples began to make itself at home. Again the knocking came, followed by Alana’s voice, “ _Will? I’m putting breakfast on.”_

“Ok, yes, I’m up, I’ll...” Will, finally managing to extricate himself from the bed, looked down and swallowed, realising that the dream had taken more of a toll than he’d realised, “...I’ll be a few minutes, just need to take a shower.”

At the very least he could be sure that the sound of rushing water would mask the sounds he was incapable of withholding as he set about finishing what the dream had started. He was left breathing hard, hands flat against the tile as he lifted his head into the spray and let the water blind and deafen him. The pricking smacks of the shower spray against his skin was soothing against his hot skin, aching muscles.

“So much for compartmentalisation,” Will muttered grimly to himself as he let the dream fade, beginning to find it difficult to recall what it had even been about.

Dried and dressed and feeling like shit, Will Graham trotted down the stairs to join his closest friend for breakfast.

“You’re up late,” Alana said as he ambled into the kitchen.  
  
“Do you have any ibuprofen?” Will asked, opening a couple of drawers in the main counter by the window and riffling through.

“Here,” she stopped poking at the eggs in the frying pan and reached over to a bowl on a shelf, tossing him a small red and white packet.  
  
“Thanks,” Will said, pouring a glass of water to down his pills, even as his quick eyes glanced between Alana and the bowl and wondered why she kept them so readily to hand, “I’ll take the dogs out.”

“Already done,” she smiled at him as she plated up; _the fried eggs and bacon spoke to him on a level his hangover wouldn’t let him pass up,_ even as the situation began to feel disquietingly familiar, “here, you’ll need it. Soaks up whiskey like a charm.”

“Was I that bad?” Will asked, scratching at his neck.

“I’m not judging,” she said as she put his plate at the head of the table, and hers next to his.

They sat, cutlery scraping against crockery, in silence except for the sounds of chewing. Several things came to mind, benign topics of conversation that would at least absolve him of the quiet, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. To play in to the lie that was building around them. When they both reached for the salt at the same moment Will pulled his hand back quickly and stiffened, but Alana only laughed easily and smiled at him, eyes open and kind and happy.

_His lips were soft, that’s what she remembered, soft and his eyes kind and lost, his tragic beauty keeping her wishing for more, enough that she kissed him again and again._

Focusing on his plate, shovelling food into his mouth and chewing, was all that could keep him from seeing into her head and finding what he didn’t want to see. For once he wished things could stay simple but, as he reminded himself that emotions ingrained as deep as scar tissue never truly healed, he knew they could not.

* * *

  
“How long since they started?”

Jack paused, sending Will an irritated stare as he pressed the clicker in his hand to send the projector to the next page. Next to him Beverly Katz let out a puff of air and put her feet up on a chair, and next to her Brian Zeller let his head drop back with a groan.

“Maybe if you stopped interrupting me and let me speak, you’d find out the answers to all these questions you keep hassling me with.”

“Ok,” Will said dismissively, crossing his arms and sniffing, “carry on.”

“I don’t need your approval, Graham. Now shut up and listen.”

The case became like a pencil sketch, all faint lines guessing at where the image should be. Sketchy facts, sketchy motives, sketchy case. _Six months since they had found the first victim,_ _four bodies blessing the air with their innards, nearly every one a different MO,_ _different locations, different victimology,_ _no correlating factor except one: all had been completely_ _emptied of their insides, from gut to_ _heart to_ _gall bladder. Three female, one male, all under thirty._

“You’re sure that there are only four?”

Today Will had remembered his gloves, and gladly they made him feel less likely to pick up on anything untoward. He knew it was psychosomatic, but then Will was a creature of habit, as well as superstition. When he focused back on the man he was addressing he found Jack rubbing at his face, eyes closed. It made Will frown, lips twisting into a grimace.

“I waited till you were finished,” he said in frustration, “what, you want me to give you a round of applause?”

“I want you to follow the damn procedure,” Jack said, gesturing to the room, “victimology, location, means of...”

“Procedure?” Will scoffed, butting in, “You gotta be kidding me, I think considering the circumstances we’re a bit beyond that, aren’t we? Especially since you’re working with a whole load of pieces missing.”

Silence, paired with three sets of eyes zoning in on him. Will felt the anxiety meter ticking higher. It was a nasty quirk of his character, that he had always hated to be the centre of attention; ever since he’d first blurted out his primary school teacher’s thoughts about her husband’s gambling habit, right up to accidentally absorbing memories from his colleagues and telling them things he couldn’t possibly know. The sick joke was that everything he did drew everyone’s attention right down on his head. He could literally feel his skin bristling.

“Is this what it’s like with you?” Zeller asked, _the mockery in his voice hiding beneath the veneer of societal norms_ , “Jack, what the hell is...”

“There are only three things that these people have in common,” Will said loudly, tersely, feeling his shoulders bunch up around his neck, “their age bracket, the removal of the organs from the body and the dates of the kills,” hearing his voice begin to lilt with emotion and panic, “First of January, eighth of January, fourteenth of February, fifth of April,” he looked at Jack and lifted a brow, “they’re _lunar_.”

“Actually we’ve had that checked already,” Brian Zeller sing-songed, “there’s no consistency with the full moon or anything like that.”

“Why would it have to be a full moon?” Will frowned, standing up to point at the screen, mainly just to get away from the man’s negative energy, “Look, here. It’s the first quarter, full moon, third quarter then a full moon again. They’re one or two days out each time, which would make sense since they’re harvesting organs. They’re not doing it _on_ the day for whatever ritual they’re pulling, they’re doing it in advance.”

“Which means they’re transporting them,” Beverly said, Will nodding at her deduction, “that would take kit. I’ll look into it.”

It was obvious how quiet Jack was staying, and how loud he was becoming to compensate. Loud, thumping in his ears: loud, to cover the anxiety; loud to make people back off. Will tried a deep breath and blinked rapidly when it did jack shit. The panic was beginning to take on a physical creation, enough to make it hard to keep out...

 _Lashing against his calm, scared of what he had created, what he had done, and allowing it as Will punched him square in the face,_ screaming _._

 _A punch card flicking rolodex of the victims, flashing faces of death and death and milky eyes and red, open chests gaping and_ screaming.

 _A de rigeur pull apart of all that was wrong with him, hysterical, wild, witch-fire, hatred,_ screaming.

He couldn’t keep it out, he couldn’t keep the wall up, he couldn't keep the cage locked. Scanning the eyes of his colleagues let Will know that, at the very least, they hadn’t noticed he’d picked up on their thoughts. It was automatic, _his instincts kicking in, taking over, just as they always used to do when coping became the problem_. Talking and reasoning and trying just to be what everyone else was.  
  
"I'm still not hearing what this has to do with there being more victims," Jack said strictly.

“B-because by the structure they’re going for, and how long since you suspect they started, you’re missing,” Will counted, lips moving but not speaking as he did some quick calculations, “seven more.”

“ _Seven_?” Jack stated, sounding less outraged at Will’s statement and more sickened by the thought of it.

“You know all that just by the dates?” Beverly, who was looking at her phone, seemed impressed; she leaned over to show Brian who just shrugged, “Wouldn’t it be ten?” Beverly asked as she showed Will the chart she’d pulled up.

“No point in doing it on n-new moon nights,” Will stuttered, feeling his chest tighten, “if they’re following the old ways. If n-not then yes, you’re looking at another ten, but I doubt it.”

“You said it was eating them,” Jack cut in.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, that I can be sure of, but it’s not taking part in the murders.”

“Then you’re thinking..?” Beverly frowned, and then her eyes lit up with excitement, “familiars? _Actual_ familiars? I’ve never come across any in real life.”

“Ok, we’re jumping to conclusions here,” Zeller said incredulously, sitting forwards and putting his hands out to the sides, palms curved in; Brian took advantage of the silence, “we’re here to follow evidence, not hypothesise over some hocus pocus bullshit theory. If we go down that route we’d end up like...” he trailed off as Jack gave him a significant look.

“Like what?” Will asked darkly, feeling the shock of the world he’d left behind creeping up on him with monstrous claws: _skimming the likeness of her from his mind as Zeller couldn’t stop thinking about the articles he’d read, the stories he’d heard, all cobbled together into a mirage of lies and horror_ _about the reason Will had fled into the wilderness all those years ago_ _._ He found himself looking at Brian out the corner of his eye; despite the man’s bravado he’d stopped short, sitting back in his chair and clicking his tongue, “come on, _like what_?”

“We’re not doing this,” Jack said, holding up his hand as Will opened his mouth, but it did little good.

“Like my last case, is that what you wanted to say?” Will said with quiet confrontation, stepping forwards.

“ _Will!_ Enough,” Jack said sternly, “Go outside and cool off, I said out and cool off!” Jack said as Will made to protest.

“Fine,” Will ground out, “fucking fine.”

Outside the office wasn’t good enough, and neither was the hallway beyond that, and neither was the building when Will marched out the front door, seething. Breathing in deep and out slow could only do so much to stem the exponential anger and hysteria rising. Everything buzzed, snapped, poked and pinched at him; _sounds, images, feelings_.

“Christ,” he muttered, standing in the parking lot next to his car, banging his forehead against the metal, “fucking asshole, doesn’t know what he’s talking about, fucking _prick_ doesn’t have the fucking right to...”

The sound of the air and the birds in the large elm tree that stood in the corner of the lot was easier to handle than people answering phones and fingers typing on keyboards at the very least. When he pulled out his phone Will automatically drew up his contacts and scrolled down until ‘ _Doctor_ _Alana Bloom’_ came into view. His thumb hesitated, breath sticking in his throat.

_Alana knew everything, from the moment Will had lost what was left of his sanity to when he had clawed it back, from the moment his best friend had started appearing in pieces until the day Will ended it all with a series of bullets until the gun stopped firing and started clicking, dry._

I need you, Will thought. But she had discarded him, Alana didn’t want to deal with his shit any more, she had made that abundantly clear. He scrolled again, finding his Matron, but it went to voicemail; ‘ _Hello, this is Hannah, I can’t come to the phone right now but please leave me...’_ . Closing his eyes for a moment he tried to find his centre, stop the anxiety seeping through his blood like a poison. It didn’t work. When he opened his eyes again he dug in his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out the smooth, ivory card he’d been given a couple of days before, elegantly applied with name and an address : _Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Parapsychologist: 687 Bayshore Avenue, Suite 200_ . As he stood, staring at the card, the phone in his hand began to ring - _Jack Crawford_. Will looked at it for another few rings before hanging up, opening the truck door and climbing into the driver’s seat.

* * *

  
Not that he’d been sure what he was expecting, but it might have been something along the lines of a fancy high rise, some executive skyscraper all glass and steel. Instead he found himself pulling up in front of a typical Georgian three story with windows in the roof, columns at the front door and iron palisades with a wrought iron gate, tipped with gold. It was old worldly, set in the shadow of the Romanesque church next door, but then overshadowed further by the very thing Will had thought of, _a skyscraper of glass and steel._

But with what little thought he was able to give to the building, the setting, it truly seemed to suit the quick impression he had gained of the man who had been assigned as his anchor to the world of sanity. Old world, gentlemanly, aristocratic. Which would be something that would weigh down upon him later as an extra burden when he began to feel sorry for what he did next.

It had built in energy, latent electric feeling. It circled and circled and ground around in his mind, and the faster he’d driven the worse it got. Voices and images and voices and images, all leading to the same place. **Her dead face staring up at him with a smile**. _You can’t control yourself._ The sickening part was that he’d never denied it. The painful part was that it had been what got her killed. _You’re fault, you freak, you’re fault she’s dead._

Green walls and vague artwork was all he picked up from the waiting room, the little he saw of it before he barged in through the dark wooden door to the sound of a startled ‘ _oh my god_ ’ and the sight of a woman twisting around in her chair to look at him and Lecter sitting up from his crossed-leg relaxed posture, eyes narrow with surprise and…

 _Sudden and hateful, he’d smacked her square in the face and shamed her a slut, even as he’d wanted to see it, touch her, hate her like she hated him. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, she hadn’t meant to she just couldn’t control it_. The woman’s thoughts were hot and loud and sudden and unwanted and he had no way to filter them.

“G-get her out,” Will breathed in and felt it stick in his throat, pointing at her, eyes wild, “I can’t, I don’t want to hear you _get out!_ ”

“Marianne if you would excuse us,” Lecter stood peremptorily and bodily led the distraught woman quickly to the door.

“ _God,_ this isn't fucking happening...” Will closed his eyes and tried to block the sounds out, heels of his hands over his eyes; **behind them she stared up** **at him accusingly** **, blue eyes soulless, dead, rotting**. Will pulled his hands up and into his hair, shaking. It had been so long, it had been long enough, he could control this, he could, he should be able to...“I n-need your help.”

“This was most unprecedented. I must clarify that this sort of behaviour is unacceptable.”

“I can’t care about your sensibilities right now Doctor,” hearing the man approach, “just keep away from me and...”

Strict footsteps and then a hand, _a hand and an arm and nothing else, that’s all they found, that’s all there was_ , fell down on his shoulder. The moment seemed to stretch out indefinitely. His eye moved before his limbs could, staring down across the curve of his elbow at the hand, _the hand curled, blue tinted fingernails, bloodless skin_ , resting against his shirt like a weight upon his chest.

“Get off,” he whispered, aware of the thumps and crashes in the room around him, “ _get your fucking hand off of me_.”

“Will, you appear to be having some sort of episode,” he could barely hear the words, see the lips move, feel _the hand_ leave him, “I would like you to calm down and listen to my voice.”

“She won’t stop looking at me,” Will’s own voice shook, his mind blanking, an open plain with only one sight on the horizon, “he doesn’t have any right to talk about her. It’s not fair.”

“Keep your eyes forwards, there is no sense in looking backwards, it will only allow you to fall faster.”

“I feel like I’m fading,” Will said softly, _she was drifting towards him, as if in truth he was going to her, drawn like a fish caught on the line as the reel spun_ .  
  
“Don't go inside, Will. You'll want to retreat. You'll want it as the glint of the rail tempts us when we hear the approaching train. Stay with me.”

“Why won’t she let me go?” Will could hear the sob in his voice and couldn’t stand the pressure in his skull, the building madness.

“To whom are you referring?” Lecter sounded close, so close it felt claustrophobic; the sounds were accelerating, the banging along with papers fluttering, rustling like dead tree leaves.

“You know,” Will could feel the eyes on him as she became closer, “Jack would have told you. He tells everyone,” he felt his voice break as she became clearer, “the nightmares follow me out of my dreams only it’s really there and no one else can see it but me. Am I crazy? I don’t know if she’s _real_.”

“I believe you are referring,” Lecter sounded so close that Will couldn’t understand why he couldn’t feel the man against him, pressing, as he uttered the one thing Will couldn’t hear, _don’t say it to me, please don’t, please don’t do this to me!_ “to Miriam Lass.”

**And then she was clearer to him than the pounding in his chest, the voice by his ear and the air in his lungs. She appeared before him like an unfinished homunculus, lopsided with one arm, mouth chapped and cracked and eyes sewn shut. She smiled and her teeth were gone, nothing but a maw _._ **

**HELLO WILLIAM.**

“ _No_ ,” he barely managed the word, but when it came it jerked out of his mouth like a bullet throwing him backwards, hitting into the desk with bruising accuracy; and then, there, at his side, Lecter reached out to touch, _to touch._ His instincts flared and Will grit his teeth in a snarl, reaching out with both arms to sweep what he could catch off of the desk towards the man, forcing him to startle back from his assault.

Running was the only way out.

* * *

Hannibal Lecter took a long breath and brushed down his tie as he listened to the sound of wheels peeling out on the street, honking horns, and looked down to the mess on the floor: his patient journal, his writing case and his lamp, now broken, spewing glass out onto the floor. Yet that was small potatoes compared to the far larger mess in the rest of the room: dozens of books, papers and figurines, scattered out across the wooden floorboards as if thrown in a fit of rage by unseen hands. The devastation was admirable in its unfocused and raw nature.

It was impossible to stop his lips from curving into a smile that reached all the way up into his eyes. In his pocket he felt his phone ring silently. Fetching it he found just the name he had hoped to see emblazoned on the screen, answering calmly.

“Jack, how might I be of service?”

* * *

  
He nearly pulled it off. Truthfully he should have known that, in his state, there was no way he could focus enough to predict all eventualities.

Most was done and dusted. He’d barely unpacked so there were only a few clothes to stuff away, some toiletries to grab. The dogs were excitable but they understood it was urgent, he could tell by the way not a single tongue or paw had touched him since he’d barrelled into the house fifteen minutes earlier and begun systematically removing his presence from it.

Except he had forgotten the one spanner in the works.

“Jack was right,” her voice came from the doorway to the spare room; he turned for a second to see her leaning there, arms folded, before looking back to his rucksack, yanking the zip closed.

“I suppose he is,” Will agreed, voice flat.

“You’re not even going to ask what he said?” Alana asked, sounding hurt.

“I’m sure, whatever it is,” Will shouldered the rucksack and walked briskly past her, “it’s warranted. I’m going home.”

“You don’t have to go right this second,” her voice followed him along the corridor and down the stairs as she rushed to keep up, “Will for crying out loud we can talk about this.”

“Really?” Will grabbed the holdall he’d dumped in the kitchen, all unwilling resentment as he put his fingers in his mouth and let out a fierce whistle, “Because talking is what got me into this whole damn mess in the first place. Opening my mouth and letting noise come out seems like a bad idea these days,” the paws came scurrying, loping and Will held the door open as the dogs rushed out into the sunlight; Will looked up and stared at the woman there who had once saved his life, who cared for him and was capable of more than he could ever ask for, ever deserve, “you can’t pin all your hopes on me Alana.”

“We’re not talking about me here,” she said, face set, lips thin and accusatory, hands on her hips, “you can’t face this all alone, Will. Trauma isn’t an itch you can scratch when you feel the need. It’s a scab, and you’re picking at it.”  
  
“Maybe I’m a masochist,” Will smiled nastily, “ever think of that?”

“You’re not a masochist, you’re not that interesting,” Alana bit back.

“You’re right,” Will said, “if I was then I would stay here and let you use me as a proxy for your loneliness. You don’t love me, Alana, don’t let circumstance fool you into thinking this is going anywhere. That ship sailed a long time ago.”

“Awful full of ourselves, aren’t we,” she shook her head but couldn’t seem to bring herself to deny it, “get the hell out of my house before I throw you out.”

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” Will said coldly.

“You’re making it very,” she looked away and shook her head, eyes glassy, “very, hard to forgive you.”

“Forgiveness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Don’t tell Jack where I went.”

Leaving Alana standing there weighed on him more than he could admit to her. As he pulled out onto the driveway he stayed focused, knowing that it was better to be truthful than to lie to her at this point. For him, love was a poisoned word that came with a host of miserable side effects but the longer he’d stayed the more difficult it would have been to remember that.

As he reached the road and indicated left, Will looked out at the last of the tall, proud elms, swaying in the golden light at the end of Alana Bloom’s driveway. Somehow he felt judged.  
  
“Go bhfásfaidh do fhréamhacha go domhain,” he murmured before leaving without looking back, taking his regrets with him.

* * *

  
The house seemed to watch him as he approached. It was unpleasant, like he was a stranger. It didn’t help that he had to cut his way through the crime scene seal with his Swiss army knife just to get in.

“Mother fucker.”

It was all he could think to say as he looked at the mess still left in his living room and on his porch, from the broken window to the blood still staining his rug and floorboards. _God damn FBI pieces of shit_ , was all he could think as he herded the dogs through to the back of the house, showering them in treats to keep them happy while he set about cleaning up. The house seemed emptier than normal, like all the good feeling that had been left there was scared away into corners and cracks in the walls.

“So much for a relaxing day off,” Will reached up to rub at his face with both hands.

It took a good three hours, picking up the pieces of where he’d left off four days ago when he’d been led from his home in a blanket and bundled into Jack’s car. As Will was down on his hands and knees scrubbing the floorboards, picking up glass carefully from his porch and pulling buckshot out of his window pane with pliers, it gave him time to think about why he was treating this so normally. _A man died here,_ it kept circling his brain, wearing at his already thin nerves, _you watched him die. Just like you watched her_.

“Maybe,” he huffed out as he scrubbed furiously at the large stain on his porch, “the reason you think this is _normal_ is because you’re so fucked up you can’t even let someone love you when they try, _ah!_ Dammit!”

Will rolled back to sit on the floor, rubbing at the knee he’d leaned on awkwardly. Around the corner poked a messy white head.

“It’s ok Bailey,” he said as the little curly dog padded towards him, climbing up on his leg with her front paws to lick at his face while her tail wagged, “ah, come on. Do I look that screwed? Fine, ok, haha, oi stop it,” he laughed, trying not to get pink tinged soap suds all over as he ruffled her fur.

 _Everything faded with time_ , was the mantra he had tried for, but as he set about stripping the varnish from the floorboards with his sander, washing it, leaving it to dry and then reapplying a new coat he ended up preferring, _hiding your pain goes a long way_. And it did, and it always had.

Pulling off his face mask and goggles Will managed to snort a laugh at himself in the mirror, his uncovered skin and hair beige with sawdust. Walking in to the kitchen Will leaned in to a cubby hole and clicked on the immersion. The afternoon had passed and not a single phone chime had rung out for attention. In a way it was good, because he really wasn’t up to facing Crawford and being forced to apologise, but on the other end it chafed at his nerves because he knew, remembered vividly, that Crawford always allowed him his space when things got dicey. And, even though Jack would probably tell him he was a liar ten times over if Will were to ever bring it up to him, all he’d ever asked of anyone was to be treated just like everyone else.

 _Tap, tap, tap_. Will looked up from the sink where he was washing his hands to find a magpie at his window, large black beak tapping at the glass above the parsley he had growing there in a window box. It’s beady black eye peered in at him as it turned its head, ruffling its beautiful wings and bobbing it’s black-shining-green tail feathers. He shook his hands dry and smiled as it cawed harshly.

“Miss me huh?” Will said as he grabbed a bag of boiled peanuts from under the sink.

He filled the feeders he had stationed by the back door, on tall slim poles so the squirrels couldn’t clean them out. The Magpie jumped about on his porch railing, chittering to herself.

“Where are the twins?” he asked as he filled the last bird feeder, clicking the top back into place, “Didn’t bring them today?”

A hop, then another, then she extended her long neck, feathers ruffling out, and let out a high pitched set of off key squeaks. Will looked up and saw two smaller black and white birds on his roof, walking around with their stiff legged gait. He grinned and stretched his arms up, fingers interlinked.

“Enjoy your meal,” he said as he left them to it.

While he was out he set about restocking the hay feeder at the back fence, and then emptying and cleaning the water bowls. The air was chill but the breeze wasn’t cutting. The weather vane on the roof showed it was an easterly. Will looked at the sky and judged the axis to the rising moon with his thumb and one eye closed. _Still a little early_ , he thought. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at the mother magpie trying to teach her children to fly up and grab on to the feeders; it still wasn’t going well. With their chittering and squawking for company Will set about preparing: the rosemary offered clippings from the tips, parsley, sage, sweetgrass, and the dogwood was just closing its flowers at this time in the evening making them easier to pinch out.

When the phone buzzed in his pocket he was boiling the kettle. Fishing it out he decided, on a whim, not to look at the screen before answering.  
  
“Graham,” he answered.

“Well hello stranger!” came a welcome voice, crackling with age, “I only just saw your call, I’m sorry I missed you.”

“Halò Hannah,” he said pouring out a mug of hot water, “Feicimis a chéile faoi soilbhreas.”

“Go mBeannaí an bandia tú,” she said with her pleasant southern lilt, “now come on, out with it.”

“Out with what?” Will asked, surly.

“Don’t try the petulance with me,” she said, “it’ll get neither of us along the road. Now make your tea, sit down and tell me what you need.”

Will looked at the teabag he was dropping into the cup and smiled wryly.

“I thought I told you not to spy on me.”

“It was just a hunch,” she said innocently.

“Yeah, right.”

Nearly a year now, he thought as he talked to her as easily as water runs downstream, since he’d made the trip to Louisiana, to be one of the thirteen. He’d told Hannah a thousand times just to replace him, but so far as yet he didn’t think she had the heart. They counted him as their long distance cousin now, it seemed. Sometimes he missed the smell of the heat and humidity in his nostrils, the sweat on his skin and the sounds of crickets at night. His coven deep in the backwaters.

“That’s quite the story,” Hannah was saying with a kick of kind laughter in her voice mixed with worry as he finished telling her his recent exploits, heavily edited of course.

“Isn’t it always?” Will said, feet up on the table as he looked out at the setting sun, “If a normal day passed by without event I’d think the world was ending.”

“I was trying to be polite dear,” Hannah said coyly, “now what aren’t you telling me?”

“I didn’t...” Will sighed, “I only got home a few hours ago and since then I’ve spent most of that time scraping blood off my floor. Can we not do this right now? It’s nearly...”

“You can do the cleansing ritual any time before midnight. Now, if you don’t get it off your chest I’m not going to be sorry when it comes back up to bite’cha.”

Chewing at the inside of his lip Will swallowed. Somehow it was worse than telling her that he’d killed a man in his own house.

“I saw...her. Again,” Will admitted slowly.

“Oh my,” a pause, “it’s been a long time. I thought that was dealt with.”

“It’s never going to be dealt with,” Will shrugged, “we both knew that.”

“Honestly? I thought last time we might have banished it. Seems you’re not making this easy for us.”

“I didn’t mean to...” he stopped in the lie and swallowed it back down his throat, huddling down into the couch and trying his best to sound contrite, “ok, I’m sorry. I didn’t keep up my side of the bargain.”

“Will Graham, that ritual took a year to set up, you know that,” she said sternly, “and we did it for you, not for us, not for anyone else. That curse will eat you alive if you let it.”

“I know.”

“You can’t control it, it’s not...”

“I _know_ ,” he said tightly, “but it’s all I have left of her,” he stopped and soaked in the truth of his words, hating that they were true; _masochist_ , Alana’s voice. Maybe she just couldn’t admit the truth he’d tried to tell her, “I can’t destroy that.”

“She isn’t your friend any more dear,” Hannah said sagely, “and the longer you let this go on, the more you’ll both be consumed by it.”

“It’s my choice,” he mumbled.

“That it is,” she said sighing; there was a pause, during which Will decided not to tell her about the dream he’d had the day before, and then, “don’t tell me it was in Wallmart again? The last time you made quite a scene. Cooked a whole lotta eggs on the shelves as I recall.”  
  
“No,” Will snorted a laugh, “no don’t worry it wasn’t anywhere...” Will remembered the scared patient Lecter had basically carried from his treatment room after he had torn through the door and felt like swallowing the word even as it left his mouth, “public. I’m seeing a psychiatrist,” he said, placating.

“Well good, maybe they’ll be able to smack some sense into you since I’m too far away to do it myself.”

“You’d like him. He’s oh so very gentlemanly.”

“Is he handsome?” she asked.

“I guess,” Will shrugged, rubbing at his neck, unable to stop his mind drifting to _high cheekbones and a long nose ending in cupid’s lips._ Stupid, he told himself sternly.

“My, my what a catch,” she giggled.

He managed to get her off the phone by promising to visit soon. This time, he thought he might actually mean it. The clock chimed in the back room. Getting up taught him how stiff he was. Will grimaced and tried to work out the kinks. The atmosphere of the room was oppressive, looming. Will looked at the light coming in through the window, the moon full, round and glaring like a spotlight.

It was a quick grind of the herbs and flowers he’d harvested, mixing through with the salt as he muttered under his breath. Cracking a piece of withered Ash from the sticks in his under-stair cupboard Will lit the gas stove and held the wood against the fire until it glowed. He took a handful of his salt mix in his right hand, ash in his left and walked to the front door, staring his perimeter clockwise, he walked, dripping the salt as he did.

“Go mbeidh focail teolaí agat tráthnóna fuar, gealach lán ar oíche dhorcha agus bóthar réidh an bealach ar fad go dtí do dhoras.”

The ash smoke was pushed into every corner, smudging out the stagnancy. As he left every room the host of paws followed, looking in but not entering as Will walked. The world seemed to calm as he followed the strict procedure, feeling out the misery and scaring from its hiding places. Once he was done Will found himself at his front door once again, feeling only marginally better. Turning his back to the world outside Will closed his eyes and brought his hands together in a startling clap. Every grain of salt suddenly but briefly burst into blue flame, leaving behind the smoking herbs to drift up into the air.

He was left staring at the house. The feeling hadn’t left; _stranger in his own den._ It nipped at him.

“Fuck it,” he growled out.

Reaching down he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, lifting it up over his head and dropping it to the ground as he started on his belt. Pulling off his socks along with his underwear, Will whistled as he threw opened the door and ran out, followed by the bounding paws of the pack. There, under the moon, Will escaped into the forest, painfully aware that somewhere, maybe then, maybe right at that moment as his feet sank into the snow and he pushed in through the undergrowth, _it_ _was_ _eating_.

* * *

  
“You know, I knew it was only a matter of time. My institute offers a wide range of treatments, much more up to date and reliable than mere psychological interference can offer. Not that there is no merit in one to one sessions but in the case of one so unique as Mr. Graham well, every precaution must be taken. I wasn’t lucky enough to be warden when he was last brought here, such a shame, but still, I am more than capable of dealing with a man of his talents.”

Jack Crawford was sure he hadn’t met anyone in his life that liked the sound of their own voice as much as Frederick Chilton did. But then having worked his way up the FBI food chain, Jack liked to think he had perfected the art of pandering to bureaucracy. It had also taught him the ephemeral nature of his position, especially when the case of a lifetime ended up in his lap. _Make or break_ , he told himself, _and I won’t break, that’s for sure._ This was going to end in promotion or embarrassment, he knew that at least, and the only ace he had was a man he could not rely on.  
  
“Of course,” he agreed, “and I am a man who likes to keep his options open. I understand you and Dr. Lecter know each other already?”

“Oh yes, we are acquainted,” Chilton said, smiling broadly from behind his large wooden desk, from a chair that Jack was well aware was set higher than the one he was currently sitting in, “in fact I consider him a friend. We dine together regularly.”

“Well that makes my job a lot easier then,” Jack said, plastering a smile onto his face, “I hope you understand that Will Graham is an asset to my team that I cannot, at this current time, have as a wildcard. If I can have him...compliant, one might say, I’d be willing to allow for any extra little experiments you might want to run. For the sake of furthering our understanding, of course.”

“Of course!” Chilton spread his hands and nodded, “And as a previous client of the institute,” Chilton leaned forwards and laced his fingers together, giving what Jack assumed was the man’s best approximation of sincerity was, “I’m sure he’ll feel right at home.”

* * *

The next day Will walked to his barn and unlocked the heavy chain that kept the door secure. Sleep had been deep and true, even if waking on the floor, feet and legs dirty and scraped, surrounded by sleepy paws snuffling their sleep hadn’t been the most comfortable. One shower and one slice of toast and marmalade later he had sat at his work bench, staring at the boat motor he had been fixing up for the past few weeks.

“What is it?” he asked slowly, no longer seeing the cogs and screws and belts, _seeing deeper, farther,_ _back to the slides in Crawford’s office,_ “What is it you follow? What is your design?”

Going to the barn had been his only choice. It had been a while now since he’d opened it. The air was musty inside, the light gloomy. He flicked on the strip lights hanging from the ceiling, flickering everything into life, squinting as he stepped inside and closed the doors. There were motes of dust in the air, stirred up as he walked in. Reaching out he drew his finger over the benches that ran down the left wall, his fingers coming away grey and dusty. Though the cold dry air had certainly helped the botanicals dry out. Clusters of herbs, plants, hanging from string adorned the space above his work tables, scenting the air. Touching the leaves they came away, powder and dust. It was soothing, at the very least, to take them down, unwrapping the twine and grinding down the leaves in the mortar and pestle, cutting up the twigs, separating everything out into small plastic containers and storing them in the racks of storage shelves that trundled down the opposite wall, interwoven with strips of fur sprouting from aged skin hanging from hooks, whole wings from birds strung together and tied in loops. Walking to the back Will washed his hands at the standing tap. There, against the wall, stood the reason he felt he might have been drawn there.

Racks of antlers, all shapes and sizes, bleached yellow-white by time and the sun, hung in solemn contemplation. Roe, red, white-tail, moose, elk, silka, fallow. Some were intimate memories, sacrifices to the hunt. Others were gifts he’d been given when he left Louisiana. Almost all were scored and chipped, scrapings of bone, pieces for charms. The bone was smooth beneath his fingertips.

 _The great stag in the forest, head thrown back in agony, its wail piercing the night sky_. It haunted him, even if the rest of the dream was now nothing but a fuzzy mess of nothingness. _A warning._

“Forget,” he muttered to himself, “focus.”

Walking away, Will forced himself to clear his mind. In the centre of the barn was a large desk he’d got at a closing down auction at an architect firm. It was tilted, massive, yellow pine; a perfect surface to keep the truth facing forwards but also tipping away enough that he didn't need to meet it face to face. Taking a minute to gather his resources, slowly but surely, Will began.

* * *

  
Soft, velveteen pressure. Fingertips against his skin, making the hairs rise. A pulling feel suckling at his naval, bringing his world slowly into focus. Sunshine against his eyelids forced them apart, blinking. Will watched the white curtains blow into the room on an unfelt breeze, streaming over his bedsheets, scrolling out into the room, unravelling. The feeling shifted, hotter, sweeter. He felt his hands strain out across the bed, fingers grasping. A gasp of thick, guttural pleasure bubbled up in his throat. The pull deepened, focusing in, down, further, closer. Lifting his head up from the pillow Will clutched at the covers, pulling them down but they seemed to ruffle up, more and more and more until he was struggling, gasping, heart racing, pulling and pulling and _pulling_ until suddenly…

_...black hands, grasping at his abdomen, curling into claws, ripping runnels across his skin as he choked, panicked, revealing arms leading down between his legs, pulling away the covers to see…_

Knocking. Will opened his eyes slowly, groaning.

“Fuck off,” he mumbled, shoving his face into the pillow and trying his best to ignore the straining erection trapped against the mattress.

Will hoped Jack could be patient. He washed himself down quickly and threw on a pair of black jeans and a brown shirt. Hurrying down the stairs, a few of the dogs followed, others still lounging in their beds in the sunshine. As he passed the fireplace he grabbed his glasses and jammed them on, wondering if Jack was going to chew him out or ignore the incident altogether, it was always one or the other. Considering the research he’d done yesterday and sent over with his recommendations, Will hoped it would be the later.

“So am I going to...” the words died in his mouth as he opened the door and looked up.

Lecter was half way down the steps. Turning to look at Will over his shoulder, their eyes caught on each other, barbed. Silence.

“I had reached the assumption that you were not home.”

The air became thick, fidgety. Blinking couldn’t help remove the sudden remembrance of _the man behind him, so close that he was nearly touching_.

“Where’s Crawford?” he ground out, feeling shaky and underprepared.

“I am here at his behest. He asked me to come and speak to you two days ago. However, I thought it more prudent to give you some time to yourself before I started my seige,” Lecter stated, “may I come in?”

Will took a moment before nodding, catching a cough onto the back of his hand and stepping back from the door. Ignoring the eyes that clicked up and down his body was the best option he could think of as Lecter turned, ascended and entered. Will closed the door behind him and sniffed.

“If you’ve come to provide me with a bill, I’m going to warn you it might need to be a payment plan,” Will said as Lecter removed his heavy, navy blue Crombie coat, revealing a brown tartan suit with pale blue shirt, his paisley tie a swirling mix of the two. His wardrobe was sickeningly coordinated, even down to the bag he was carrying.

“That will not be necessary,” Lecter said as Will offered to hang up his jacket.  
  
“You sure?” he asked, trying to break the tension with a laugh, “because I didn’t get a chance to see your office, but all of the other places looked like bomb sites afterwards.”

“So this has happened before?” Lecter asked; Will felt his mouth thin to a line. Smoothly, the doctor let his eyes swerve away out over his home, “No lasting harm done. Books can be replaced.”

And then the conversation stopped, and Will watched, his arms jerking up to wrap around his middle as Lecter simply walked into his home and through into his kitchen. His nerves set his skin alight but, with the suddenness of it all he was at a loss. At the sound of cupboards opening Will was startled into action.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he asked angrily as he reached the kitchen door, itching to reach forwards to take away the plates Lecter had found and was putting on the counter.

“I brought breakfast,” Lecter said, reaching down into the bag he had placed on the floor, fishing out two tupperware bowls.

“You brought..? Ok,” Will said, frowning, “why?”

“Because it is breakfast time.”

Will found he couldn’t argue, fidgeted for a moment and then left the kitchen, only to turn straight back around and head in to put the kettle on the stove.

“No need,” Lecter said; Will peered over his shoulder, watching as a tall black flask was produced, perfuming the air with the smell of dark roast.  
  
“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Too bitter?”

“Caffeine doesn’t agree with me.”

“I see. I will need to remember that for the future.”

“The future of what?” Will asked sourly, “Ambushing me?”

“I feel we have that in common,” Lecter said, _again with eyes open, sincere, utterly baffling_. Will blinked fitfully and looked away, “you do not enjoy eye contact?”

“It’s not helpful when I can’t...”

It hit like a brick wall, a car crumpling, all accordioned metal and scrap. For a moment he could listen only to the sound of his own heartbeat, the inhaling of air into his lungs, then out with a rushing exhale, the blood fizzing in his ears. But nothing, _nothing else was there._ Slowly but surely, Will Graham lifted his eyes back to the one place he normally couldn’t stand to put them: right in the path of another’s gaze.

“Will? Is everything alright?” Lecter was asking him calmly.

Nothing, not a flash, not a noise, not a peep from inside his skull. Where normal people had thoughts spewing out of them a mile a minute, images and feelings and noise and bright, hot emotion like someone flicking the remote through channels on a giant, irritating television….here was the one time the screen was off. Hell, he wasn’t sure there even was a screen. When Will tried, out of practice as he was, to dig deeper, to make a connection, to see; _nothing_.

“Yeah,” Will smoothed away his frown and smiled to cover his utter confusion and fear, “everything’s fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using Irish Gaelic, hopefully it's all up to scratch! I know, Louisiana and Irish maybe doesn't gel too well, but my Celtic roots are made happy by it so I'm sticking with it.
> 
> 'Go bhfásfaidh do fhréamhacha go domhain' - 'May that your roots grow deep'  
> 'Feicimis a chéile faoi soilbhreas' - 'Let us meet in pleasantness'  
> 'Go mBeannaí an bandia tú' - 'May the Goddess bless you'  
> 'Go mbeidh focail teolaí agat tráthnóna fuar, gealach lán ar oíche dhorcha agus bóthar réidh an bealach ar fad go dtí do dhoras' - 'May you have warm words on a cold evening, a full moon on a dark night and a smooth road all the way to your door'


	3. Ambrosia

“ _I need a drink.”_

“ _Since when do you drink?” she asked with a wry twist._

“ _I think this job is pushing me into the sweet arms of alcoholism.”_

_The archives weren’t designed for long term study. Except for maybe a study of dust and dragging time, if any were to be made at all. Darkness, lights on timers and brown cardboard framed in metal racking. That they had been down here for the last three hours wasn’t helping matters._

“ _Don’t even think about it Graham,” she said, throwing her pen at him, hitting him in the chest._

“ _Aw, you do care,” he said, grinning._

“ _Nope,” she shrugged, “just don’t want to go through all the hassle that comes with getting a new partner.”_

“ _Well, it’s always nice to feel wanted,” Will said as he pulled the next box down off the stack._

“ _Yeah well for you I guess that’s...”_

_Yanking the top off the box Will began riffling through, pulling out a fat dossier bound up in string._

“ _You guess what?” he asked when she didn’t continue, “Come on Lass, we’re down here because of what you pulled earlier. The least you could do is finish your sentences.”_

_Looking up Will found brown eyes looking down at a sheet of dates and times, a mock up of some complicated looking chart._

“ _Find something interesting?” he asked, walking over._

_She looked up at him and shook her head, smiling, “You know, sometimes I hate your self-deprecating bullshit. It’s not constructive and it makes me feel bad.”_

“ _I didn’t mean...” Will felt his face fall, unsure of what to do._

“ _You need to have more pride in who you are, ok? And you can’t feel bad that your parents...” she seemed to realise just what she was saying and stopped, clearing her throat, “just, you’ll always be wanted down here in the dungeons with me.”_

“ _Gee, thanks,” Will played along, glad to get as far away from her pity as possible, “it’s nice to know, considering I think this is going to be our new home until Jack forgives you.”_

* * *

  
There were crows following them as they drove, he was almost sure of it. He had seen their wings flickering above, always just out of sight. Black wing tips against the white-cloud sky. After a good twenty minutes’ study he began to think it must be a trick of the light out the corner of his glasses. Paranoid, he told himself, although you have every right to be.

“What the hell are you smiling about?” Jack asked as he slowed down to stop at a red light.

“Ever had your own madness validated?” Will asked as a large, black crow landed on the street light to their left, fluttering its sleek feathers; he pointed up at it and raised his brows. Jack just looked back to the road and muttered something Will couldn’t catch. They fell back to silence, though Will could feel Jack glancing at him now and then as Will kept his eyes out the window, alert for wings and talons.

“You’re looking a little more ethnic recently,” he said inappreciatively, looking at the small piece of bone on a leather thong just visible from above the hem of Will’s sweater, “What’s that around your neck anyway?”

Will looked at him and raised a brow, “I’ll tell you if you tell me where we’re going.”

“You lost it the other day. I can’t have that kind of spanner in my works.”

“Your guy Zeller has a big mouth...” Will said with quick anger.

“And you’re no better,” Jack shut him down; Will wanted to snap back but thought better of it, “but I can talk to him. I can’t talk to you because you don’t listen to a word I say. Never have.”

“So what, you going to get a collar and a leash?” Will asked facetiously.

Will didn’t appreciate that he got no reply. Taking a breath didn’t help, which only made him feel worse. Ever since this had all started again, _since the past became disturbingly like the present_ , it had become increasingly difficult to remain calm. The thought of history repeating itself was almost too much.

“Why haven’t you been keeping your appointments with Doctor Lecter?” Jack asked suddenly.

“He brought me breakfast the other day. It was weird.”

“ _He’s_ the weird one now,” Jack said, giving Will the eye, “that’s something, coming from you. He told me he tried to contact you for two days and you ignored him until he was forced to turn up on your doorstep.”

“Oh yeah? Cause he told me that he was giving _me_ space,” Will snapped out.

“Bullshit, Graham, I don’t appreciate you lying to me. He called, told me you didn’t keep your appointment.”

“I don’t like him. I don’t want to see him.”

 _No lights on behind those closed-door eyes. Will remembered the feeling of being shut out completely, and not knowing what was happening, not daring to ask for an explanation_ . _And Lecter had simply watched him, calm, kind and generous, not a hint of anything that should have made Will order him out of his house, tell him to leave, slam the door in his face. But he’d done it anyway._

“Great,” Jack sighed tightly, “then it’s a good thing I set this up.”

Paying so much attention to the wings flying alongside them and being distracted by Jack’s irritating questions, Will had completely lost track of where they were going. Which made it so much worse when he looked out the windscreen to see just which driveway they were rolling along.

_The look of a stately home from the outside, all colonnades and fancy brickwork. But the inside was shrunken and cold, pulled down into the only room he was able to see, four grey walls and a bed he could barely stand for the nightmares it brought, the only splash of colour available being the red he’d spilt when he’d chewed through the soft skin at his wrist just so as not to hear her voice any more, ending up in a jacket so tight that it gave him pins and needles, only saved by Alana Bloom walking through his door with the determination of a wolf and the patience of a saint._

He didn’t think Jack saw it coming, and to be truthful Will didn’t think he had much control over his hands as they yanked the car door open and unbuckled his seatbelt, forcing Crawford to slam on his breaks and allow him his escape.

“Will, jesus christ!” Crawford was shouting, scrambling out of the driver door as Will backed away from the hastily stopped car, plumes of dust rising up from the gravel in the cold sun, “You got a death wish Graham, cause I’m not keen on helping you fulfil it!”

“I’m not going in there,” Will was muttering, shaking his head; when Jack started towards him Will shouted, “you can’t just put me back in the box when you think I’m broken Jack, I’m not a fucking toaster oven!”

“You know you’re not making a great case for yourself right now,” Jack said sternly.

“I don’t care,” Will shook his head and grabbed onto the car roof with white knuckles, “you can’t, you’ve got no right!”

“Oh really? After the stunt you pulled at Lecter’s office?”

“He...told you?” Will asked, mortified.

“No, he didn’t. I found out through a formal complaint from the lawyer of another patient of his. For crying out loud Will, I can’t let you work this case while you’re tearing yourself five ways from Sunday, but I _need_ you on this with us.”

“Why haven’t you told them?” Will asked suddenly.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Fuck you, Jack, you can lie to them if you want but don’t try and lie to me. It’s the same isn’t it. The same as last time, only worse, right? It’s so much worse, which means this time whoever is pulling off these murders is serious,” Will took a breath and shook his head, “why haven’t you _told_ them? You made me sound like a lunatic piece of shit in there last week when I tried to explain about the evidence.”

“You’re asking me why,” Jack said as he locked the car, “when as soon as anyone mentions the Lass case you flip your crazy switch.”

“Only because he..!” Will began to argue, frowning.

“No, I don’t want any more excuses,” Jack shut him down, watching Will steadily, “you want to stay on this case?”

Staring at the large building in front of them as if scared it might reach out and swallow him up at any moment, Will kept his hands on the car so as not to let Jack see that they were shaking, “...You know I do.”

“Then you’re going to walk inside and let them help you,” Jack said.

“Please Jack, I can’t go in there...”

“With a smile and a thank you very much,” Jack continued loudly, “Because if you do not, I’m pulling your temp badge out the system so fast your head will spin. And I doubt it’ll stop there.”

“Are you threatening me?” Will asked slowly, through a tight jaw.

“I’m giving you an ultimatum,” Jack said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “but without my protection, I wouldn’t be surprised if you found the director of the Institute petitioning the state to bring you in as part of a case study. With a formal complaint on your record it would be simple. I’ve spoken to him already, he’s very interested to meet you...”

“I’ll speak to Lecter,” Will blurted out; at the very least it seemed to have garnered Jack’s attention, “Ok? I’ll keep my appointments, I’ll be on time, I’ll be...nice,” Will floundered, “I’ll jump through your hoops, I’ll say what you want. Just let me come back to Quantico. I want to make things right. I owe her that much. _You_ owe her.”

“Don’t try and pile your shit at my doorstep.”

For the first time in a long time, Will kept his mouth shut and, with even greater difficulty, looked up into Jack’s eyes, holding the stare. It was easy to catch the thoughts that floated close to the surface without anyone noticing.

_Remembering Miriam Lass as a little green recruit, all verve and vigour and a need to do right. Her eyes had been so open and bright it hurt him to see it. It always hurt to see the light go out once the work started, once they saw the darkness of the world. Jack hated that._

It was a pure memory, only now it was tinged with guilt. Jack was the first to look away, sighing with a nod. Getting back into the car, the relief was palpable. Watching the image of the Institute retreating as they reversed, Will sank down into his chair and gripped his thighs.

“And in case you need telling,” he said as Jack pulled round to head back to the highway, “if you ever bring me back here again, it’ll be the last time you ever see me,” the silence spread out too long, and Will felt his lips jerk into a deprecating smile, “now that I think about it that might not be much of a threat.”

“Will, would you shut that fool mouth of yours, just for a little while?” Jack asked, answering his phone, “Crawford. No, not this time, if you could cancel. I understand, please give my apologies, I know he was kind enough to see us last minute. Thank you.”

Biting at his thumb nail, Will reached out with his pinky finger and stroked the piece of bone at his throat, closing his eyes in a silent thank you.

* * *

  
“You were on the phone, Director, I’m so sorry I...”  
  
“Then next time, come in and fucking _get_ me Pam!” Chilton yelled at the lanky redhead fussing on the rug in his office, “Do you have any idea what this opportunity means to us? Now how about you make yourself useful,” he said, baring his teeth, “and get me some god damned coffee!”  
  
She hurried too quickly, running against he door before fumbling it open, her eyes full of tears.

Frederick Chilton fell back in his chair, letting it sway as he fumed. Why couldn’t anything ever go his way, just for once? Every time something presented itself as a boon in his life, it came with a caveat. Now, Jack Crawford had dangled the one thing he wanted right in front of his face like a rabbit on a snare line, only to untie the wire just as he got close enough to taste the thrill.

Waking up his laptop with a click of a mouse, he pressed his fingerprint on the track pad and logged in, bringing up the pages he had been looking at before his rude awakening. With his other hand he pulled out the disposable mobile he kept in his pocket, dialling. After ten rings, during which he had pulled up the pictures of Graham from his trial, it was finally answered.

“Hello there, is he home? Thank you honey,” he asked sweetly as he stared at the dark eyes of the man who had slipped through his fingers, waiting for the one man that might be able to salvage this mess, “Hobbs. Get it done.”

Hanging up, Chilton threw the phone onto his desk and pulled out his personal cellphone, typing a quick message, allowing himself to shake off the negative and trust in himself. Things always turned out in the end.

* * *

  
Only a day since he’d returned, and already he was finding things to hate about Jack Crawford’s shitty sense of humour. Or worse, the fact that he didn’t even remember at all. Not in the way Will did.

“I can’t believe it,” Will shook his head, on his knees to look under the table, and let out an incredulous but fond chuff of laughter, “it’s still there. Something tells me the only thing that would convince them to replace the furniture in this place would be a fire.”

“Well, I’m glad one of us is happy,” Beverly said as she surveyed the misery that was the archives; Will's smile stuttered out as he rubbed at his neck, “I’m hair and fibre, Graham. Archives isn’t really my scene, so if we could get to this I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure,” he blinked awkwardly, pulling himself up and rubbing the dust from his knees, “lets go then.”

“So,” she said as she yanked a pull cord and lit up a set of racking, “I’ll take Jan and Feb, you take May and April.”

“Ok,” Will nodded.

Falling into a synergy with another person, even if he couldn’t count her as a friend, was at least something. Beverly Katz, he was finding out quickly, was an open minded, independent individual. If he were to encapsulate her in one word, he’d probably say she was impartial. She didn’t accept him, but she certainly didn’t seem to hate him in the way Zeller did, and at a time like this he’d be thankful for small mercies.

“So,” she called from a couple of racks over, “what’d you write on the table? Something dirty?”

Will smiled softly and shook his head even though he knew she couldn’t see it, “No. Just...” thinking about it made the smile all the more fond, “the sort of thing you write when you’ve been down here three days in a row.”

“Oh yeah?” Beverly sounded jaded already, “Didn’t know that was possible. Is it ‘kill me now’?”

Finding what he was looking for, Will reached in and retrieved the box he needed, finding it surprisingly light. When he walked back Beverly was already dumping her second heavy looking box; she looked at his and put her hand on her hip, gesturing to him, “typical, I always pick the wrong side of the coin.”

“We’ll split it,” Will indicated to one of her boxes, then stopped, looking up at her through his lashes, “well?”

“Well what?”

Reaching under the table he tapped at the old message and raised a brow. After a moment Beverly smiled wryly, before hunkering down and putting her head underneath, her long hair bouncing. Will sat down and enjoyed the sound of her laugh. It was musical, but understated, like she didn’t use it too often.

“Jack Crawford is an asshole,” she said as she re-emerged, “not very imaginative.”

“I wasn’t feeling very imaginative when I wrote it,” Will shrugged.

_Lying on the floor, knowing he was getting crap in his hair, but unable to stop laughing because Miriam was lying like his mirror-twin, head beside his, saying the words out loud as he uncorked the marker and wrote them, both of them in hysterics by the time he’d finished._

For a moment he thought he could smell the heady scent of marker pen. He watched Beverly climb up into a chair opposite his and open her first box. Suddenly feeling a little less jubilant about being back in a place that his memories liked to haunt, Will followed suit.

“Shouldn’t we be able to do this from the database?” Beverly asked as she sat with a manilla folder open in his hands, “This is going to be hella time consuming.”

“Already tried,” Will shrugged, “nothing came up flagged for organ removal, any signs of ritual significance, occult iconography or signs that wasn’t just dumb kids or wannabes. There must have been something we missed, or maybe we’ll be unlucky and whoever did the missing murders was better at disposing of corpses than their counterparts.”

“ _If_ there are others,” she said, looking up at him.

“Right,” Will bit his tongue and nodded, “if.”

Time flowed long and slow in the deadened, noiseless room, only the buzzing of the lights above to break up the monotony. _Triple homicide in a bar, shooting_ . _Kidnapping case, teenage girl, still missing._ Will began to feel doubt creeping up on him as every case that passed by his fingers laughed at his theory, at his only chance of this being the same as last time. His only chance.

Then…

“Hey,” he said, flicking his head up and looking to Beverly, eyes coming to rest on her chin, “do you have any arson cases there?”

“Arson? Uh, yeah actually I have two,” Will stood up and walked around the table, “a warehouse in south docks, and a residential area, family home. Mum and two kids, all three deceased,” she handed him the file when he asked, “what are you looking for?”

The pictures were standard, _all charred, all black, all burned into his mind as he looked_. Will swallowed and skipped past to the autopsy report, eyes narrowing, then back to the fire fighter's report. He put it down in front of Beverly, open, and then put his own next to it.

“I have one too.”

“Yeah, I see that,” she said, clearly asking for an explanation.

“They’re similar. Don’t you think so?”

“Uh,” Beverly scanned them both, shrugging, “I suppose. I mean, most arson cases are when they involve homicide right? But there are big differences here, look. One started in the garage after a break in, the other there was no break in so the perp had a key. One was a lone male in his twenties, the other mother and two kids. The districts are really far apart, Will, I don’t know what you’re...”

“Ok, I hear you, but listen for a minute,” Will butt in, ignoring her inscrutable look, “it’s not what’s different that interests me. Here, in the report the fire fighters on both cases say that the accelerant was placed away from the bedrooms, the fires started downstairs.”

“That’s normal...”

“But that there were traces of accelerant in the bedrooms too,” Will said, pointing, “the bodies burned so hard that there was barely anything left,” Will pulled out a couple of the photos, showing the charred skeletons of the victims, like charcoal mimicries, “they attribute it to their clothing but, hell, I can’t think of anything that would...I think they were already dead.”

“That’s a leap,” she said.

“Their fire alarms were in working order, both,” Will said, “How many arson cases have you seen where no one gets out of bed when the smoke alarm goes off?” Will asked significantly, watching Beverly look down, a faint sign of interest in her eyes, “Not even a body on the stairs or near a door trying to get out.”

“Could have been smoke inhalation? Maybe the fire didn’t start right away and the detector didn’t go off until everyone was already knocked out.”

“That’s a pretty big ask,” Will said, “think about it, this would be a great way to dispose of the evidence if there were organs missing from their corpses.”

“...I suppose,” Beverly said, sitting forwards and lifting her hands before putting them down on her knees, “but it would be another completely different MO than any of the other murders we have for this case.”

“Would that really surprise you?” Will asked, catching her eye.

_Intrigue, wariness, blooming interest, pity._

Beverly’s feelings were a fifty-fifty goodie bag of nasty and nice. Will looked away quickly and shoved his hands in his pockets so that he could close the connection. Beverly was eyeing him as if she wanted to say something but, just then, a phone started to ring. Thanking whoever needed thanked Will checked his cell, looking to Beverly as she too pulled out hers and checked. They both read the message and sagged.

“I hate to say I told you so,” Will muttered bitterly as he stared at the stark words on the screen, ‘ _There’s been another. My office, five minutes. Crawford’_.

* * *

  
The forest was singing to her. Light through the leaves, the green shining with the life growing inside. The dirt beneath her feet full of worms and the ever rolling decay that fed the trees, the plants. Above a jay flew down, so close she thought she felt its wing beats. It brought a startled laugh to her lips, happiness in her fingers as she brought them to her mouth. It was a sort of peace, that was what the woman in town had told her, to commune with the living things. Of course taking the truck and sneaking off had also been part of the rush. A feeling of utter independence that spoke to her soul, like the birds that flew up into the air.

“ _Abigail!_ ”

The call sent her shivering, eyes scattering through the trees, desperate. Again the call came, kicking her into gear. The running was easy, but the destination was difficult. _Where are you going to go?_ She asked herself, feeling the panic welling. She didn’t want it, it wasn’t fair of him to ask her to. It wasn’t fair to trap her like an animal, make her do what he said.

“Abigail! Girl where you at?”

Closer now, so close she knew he must be able to see her. Yet she didn’t stop running, wouldn’t stop until there was no other option but to submit.

* * *

  
He imagined, when he could allow himself to see past the blood, the gouges in the floor, the broken furniture and the misery spattered like falling stars across the walls, that it could be pretty nice here. What did they call it again, he thought, a fixer upper? They weren’t far from the stream, enough that he couldn’t just hear the water but taste the clarity of it on his tongue. It gave the whole area a lightness, a humidity that made the plants grow tall.

The house itself wasn’t anything to write home about, all peeling wallpaper and mould in the corners. It spoke of another’s love, someone else who had owned this place long ago and had loved it, taken over by another who didn’t love themselves enough to look after it. Reaching out, he picked up a picture from the mantelpiece. It felt odd through the nitrile gloves. _A boy and a woman, he_ _r_ _hair ratty but her smile large, teeth showing; the boy was nothing more than seven, family resemblance obvious_. This far out into the middle of nowhere, it spoke of someone wanting to hide.

“Same MO as the last,” Zeller was saying as he set down another yellow marker blazoned with the number fifteen and took a photograph; Will wondered if Zeller had even been to a crime scene where he’d run out of markers to put against evidence.

“Even down to the number of points on the pentagram,” Will said sarcastically as he gestured to the wall.

Zeller didn’t reply, but Will could tell he wanted to. It was sudden and rash, but Will couldn’t fully feel guilty as he watched the young man hunkered down on the floor as he set the flash on the camera. Staring deep, concentrating, letting his defences down.

_Holding her tight, the feral feeling light and hot and lush in a way he couldn’t understand or even try and care to. Her hair like flames, her body like silk, all strawberries and cream beneath him, surrounding him. When she smiled he thought he might let himself fall, just for tonight._

“ _Graham_ ,” Jack’s voice pulled him from Zeller’s thoughts; Will looked over, blasé, “eyes on the prize, not anywhere else.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a mock salute, unable to stop smirking.

“So, what are we thinking?” Jack asked even as Brian scratched an itch at his head, looking suspicious.

“Definite breaking and entering,” Beverly said as she walked to the door, looking very different with her hair pulled up in a bun and swallowed in Tyvek, “lock was pretty lame to begin with though. Wouldn’t have taken much.”

“And he put up a fight,” Zeller said, standing up to indicate to the upturned table, deck chairs all folded up and bent, runnels gouged into the floor.

“Of course he did,” Will said as he walked to the cowboy booted feet of the dead man and cocked his head as he looked at his eviscerated corpse, “what werewolf doesn’t put a fight?”

In a way he was beginning to enjoy the silences that followed after he said almost anything these days, they were peaceful if nothing else. Part of him wished this one would go on forever, allow him to listen to nothing but the stream behind the house gurgling and the breeze in the trees rustling.

“And how would you explain that?” Jack asked, breaking the calm.

“Really?” Will frowned, running his top teeth over his bottom lip as he looked up at Jack, “what man do you know who could take a deck chair,” he pointed to one of the mangled twists of metal, “and not only turn it into a pretzel, but also,” he leaned down to point out the filed down edge of the metal, caught with strips of wood, “use it to dig two inches down into a solid wood floor. Also the whole place stinks of wet dog.”

“Maybe he’s got a _dog_ then,” Zeller said facetiously.

“The only thing in this room that looks new on the walls is a calendar that includes the phases of the moon,” Will said, barely resisting rolling his eyes.

Lifting his right hand and shook it at the deceased, all tanned skin torn open below his bearded face.

“I’d take it, two to one, that he has marks on his gums. Right where his canines are. Indents, big ones.”

He wasn’t the only one to notice that Beverly was giving him an appreciative look. Will had seen it before. Not everyone disliked his methods, especially when they yielded results. She squatted down next to the man and opened his mouth, peering inside.

“I’ll be damned,” she said, leaning back to let Will see.

“The canines are the last part to reform after the transformation,” she said, “the gums always suffer. So, where do I pick up my winnings?” Will asked smugly.

“I think I preferred you when you were crazy,” Zeller said flatly.

“Oh I can be both,” Will shrugged, this time unable to resist the urge to roll his eyes when Jack opened his mouth, “alright, alright, I’ll play nice. Now that was the first course, if you leave I can get you the rest,” Will said as he began stripping the left blue glove from his hand, rubbing away the powdery residue.

“No.”

One word that stopped everything. Will looked up, confused, and even more so when Beverly was the first to speak out.

“Come on boss,” she said, “this is important.”

“...Give us a minute,” Jack said; when no one moved he glared, “ _now_.”

Watching the room empty felt like being stripped of his armour. Being in a room alone with someone wasn’t his favourite thing, especially when said other person was not only law enforcement but also a man with more control over him than he cared for. The door closed with a click, and Will self-consciously put his hands in his pockets.

“If you don’t like my methods,” Will said slowly, barely restraining the venom, “then why’d you fucking hire me?”

“Because you’re a good profiler, Will,” Jack said, snapping out his diction, “and you have skills that even you can’t explain, _ah_ don’t deny it,” Jack held up his hand when Will opened his mouth to protest, “but the last thing I need to go on file in this case is god damned necromancy. It was difficult enough to explain away the last time.”

“You had to explain it away?” Will asked incredulously, “How the fuck did you manage that?”

“None of your damned business...” Jack said authoritatively, fading to nothing as he caught Will’s eye, caught and held because Will was watching him intensely.

_Fingers typing, sweat caught in his collar, knowing that if he did it carefully enough there would be no inconsistency in the evidence log, because saying that the drawing had been found at the victim’s house was far easier than trying to explain where it had really come from. This was too important to lose it now._

“You _falsified_ my evidence?” Will breathed out, shocked.

What happened next reminded Will the other reason he hated being alone in a room with someone. Crawford took the room in three strides. Trying to back up, the sudden wave of fear made him clumsy, trip, fall against the wall. Will let out an aborted cry that was silenced by a hand over his mouth, the other grabbing his right hand through the glove and crushing tight enough to twist skin. He had always noticed how much larger Crawford was than him, but had never really thought, not that it would matter, not that it would ever come to...

Will had always been lean, wiry. Jack had the build of a football player, all wide chest and shoulders and a muscular physique that pinned him with ease. The man’s eyes were coldly livid as they stared into him. The smell of Jack's leather glove was heady and suffocating against his nose.

“I doubt I need to tell you this Graham,” Jack’s voice was deceptively calm, considering all that radiated out was _anger, rage, fear, ANGER, RAGE, FEAR_ , as he pressed his face close and spoke low and steady, “but if I catch you going into my head, even if I just _suspect_ that you’re poking around where you’re not wanted,” his grip tightening, pulling a muffled curse out against his palm, “you’ll be going to the cells in the Institute that people need to take an elevator down to visit, you get me?” he waited until Will nodded, “I’m doing this to protect us, to protect _you_. Maybe you’d do best to think about that before you mouth the fuck off.”

On being released Will nearly fell, catching himself against one half of the broken table. Steadying himself, Jack turned away, rubbing at his mouth and shaking his head. It was difficult to quantify the fear rushing through his veins, adrenaline high like a perfume making him giddy. When he looked down to his wrist to see the livid red marks there he let out a laugh, curt and cut off. Watching Jack turn to look at him, frowning only made it worse. The laughter came with bright eyes, squinting and a pain in his gut.

“You’re not right in the head,” Jack was saying, eyes to the ceiling as if asking for help.

“Rich,” Will managed to get the word out past the laughing fit, the wide smile stopping his face from falling, “that’s real rich coming from you, Jack.”

“Just keep your mouth shut and maybe we’ll all get through this in one piece.”

Will hurried from the house as the adrenaline began to drop out, his hands shaking, his smile faltering. He kept his eyes on his truck and strode across the overgrown yard, all long grass and car parts.

“Hey, you ok?” Beverly’s voice from somewhere to his right.

“Got an appointment,” Will managed to say, keeping his eyes forward.

It was three miles down the road before he saw red so thick and caustic that it forced him to pull over, get out and kick seven hells out of his tire with swings hard enough that, he knew from the sound they made when they connected, it would be enough to leave Crawford unrecognisable after only a few, solid blows.

* * *

  
This time around, Will allowed himself time to admire the intricate little touches to Hannibal Lecter’s waiting room that he hadn’t had the wherewithal to appreciate last time he’d been through. It was a calming space, the green walls complementing wooden floorboards and the worn but authentic looking rug beneath his feet had a homely but stately feel to it. He was just about to get up and take a closer look at the Japanese prints on the wall above the credenza when the door opened. Will stiffened, suddenly worried that he would see Lecter’s patient, the woman with the worried eyes and the abusive husband that he really, really couldn’t deal with right now. Instead…

“Mr. Graham,” Lecter was alone, holding open the door as an offering; today seemed to be feisty, Will thought derisively, if the man’s dark grey and crimson red check suit was anything to go by, “you are early.”

“Then why’d you come and get me?” Will asked, prickly, picking up his jacket as he stood.

“It would be terribly rude of me to leave you here when I am free. Please, come in.”

The instinctive need to stay away from the man collided with having to walk past him through the doorway. Will kept his eyes away from those that watched him as he entered, walking out into the expansive room. He didn’t remember much of it, just flashes. Not the cloister-like bottom floor, all scalloped archways hiding artwork and sculptures alike, nor the upper floor which held a library all of its own, accessed by a lean and tall ladder at the far wall. The curtains he did remember, as a backdrop to the fiasco, all white and red stripes. They were half drawn, giving the room a cavernous feel, gloomy and tranquil.

“May I?”

Will only just managed to switch his startled gasp for a swift inhale as he turned to find Lecter standing next to him, not close enough to make him angry, but not far enough away to be pleased about it either. His skin still stung at his wrist, and his senses were on high alert. Lecter was holding out his hand and it took Will a moment to realise what the man wanted.

“...Thanks,” he said as he offered his jacket; Lecter took it and hung it on an ornate stand by the entranceway.

“So,” Lecter said as he walked past the desk Will intimately remembered devastating on his last visit, towards the twin, low black leather chairs which faced each other, “should we continue where we left off?”

“I...” Will stopped, closing his mouth and breathing out through his nose, closing his eyes until he felt calmer, “I want to apologise, for my behaviour.”

“Oh?” Lecter said; when Will opened his eyes the man was watching him, _staring directly at him._

Blinking didn’t help, and looking away only made him feel like a coward. Will grit his teeth and continued, unable to stop his tone from souring.

“I wrecked your office.”

“And you have already apologised for it once before,” Lecter pointed out.

“Well now I’m doing it again,” Will said, “and for throwing you out yesterday. I shouldn’t have, I just wasn’t ready to...I’m not used to having guests in my home.”

“Will.”

And it was odd at first, and then sickening in a way he couldn’t explain. _That one word, his name, said so carefully_. It pulled his gaze back like a challenge. Lecter stood like a statue, all angles and lines that looked as if they had been chosen for their artistic merit, to highlight and accentuate. His form was intoxicatingly perfect, and it itched at him. Will felt sullied and chaotic in comparison.

“What?” he asked confrontationally.

“I am going to ask a favour of you, and in return you may ask one of me, whenever you like,” Lecter smiled, an infinitesimal quirk of the corners of his mouth, “would you please come and sit with me? I find standing consults to be rather tiring, and I have had a long day.”

The tip of his tongue was desperate to rasp out something nasty, something scathing, but then the reminder of Jack’s threat, _of that long driveway_ _leading_ _up to the one place he refused to go_ , held him in check. Swallowing down the feeling of his skin crawling, Will stepped slowly forwards, taking a seat as Hannibal did. The man crossed his legs and sat back comfortably, as if he belonged in the chair as a birthright. On the other hand Will couldn’t bring himself to completely comply, sitting forwards, hands clasped, elbows on his thighs.

“Thank you,” Hannibal said.

“Anytime,” Will said bitterly, frowning as Lecter produced a sheet of paper that he leaned forwards to offer; Will hesitated before accepting it, looking down, “what is this?”

“Your psychological evaluation,” Lecter said, drawing Will’s sharp glance, “you’re mainly functional and more or less sane. Well done.”

“You’re joking right?” Will said flatly, the hysterical need to laugh trying to bubble up again, emerging only as a shaky, self-deprecating smile, “Do you really think a magic rubber stamp is going to convince anyone of that? With all respect, you’d only be doing your reputation a damage if you gave this to Jack Crawford.”

“You can let me worry about my professional reputation,” Lecter said, tilting his head marginally to the left, “I always feel that an employer’s expectations create a barrier to important issues. Jack Crawford may lay his weary head to rest knowing he can rely on you and our conversation can proceed unobstructed by paperwork.”

“I thought we stipulated no lying,” Will said seriously, eyeing the man.

“I am not lying to _you_ ,” Lecter clarified; Will’s smile dissolved to a frown, “and for Jack this is not so much a blatant falsehood as it is a...” he searched for the words, “promise of future outcomes.”

“You’re giving Jack Crawford a promissory note in lieu of my sanity?” Will asked incredulously, eyes narrow, “A little presumptuous isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so,” Lecter said with such blatant confidence that, once again, Will couldn’t think of a come back.

As the evening had deepened the room had continued to darken with it. Part of him wished to ask for a light on, something to illuminate their situation; the other part was enjoying the dim shadow covering everything, only the faint light of the setting sun casting a glow into the room.

“So,” he said when Lecter wasn’t forthcoming, “if that’s all?” Will stood suddenly, making Lecter raise his brows marginally.

Turning to march towards the doorway Will could feel the tension in his legs, in his arms, in his fingers as they curled into the thick, expensive paper. _Putting his back to the man sent the hairs on his arms on end, the thought of_ _not seeing the man coming, not knowing..._

“A promise takes work,” Lecter said, stopping him in his tracks, “we both know there is no magic rubber stamp, as you put it. No cure to the curse that haunts you.”

The gloom seemed to sink down across his mind, over his body. He thought he could hear his own rhythm, his body finding it hard to cope. No one knew, no one but his Matron knew. Coincidence, that’s all, he tried to tell himself, it’s just a word, it’s just a coincidence that he used _that word_.

“What did you say?” Will asked breathily, looking over his shoulder.

“The umbra of it, following you like a double, tracing your footsteps,” Lecter was talking casually as if they were merely discussing the weather, “I hate to think you would despise yourself so much as to tolerate something so destructive.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Will ground out, heart beating loudly in his chest.

“I wish we could get past these pleasantries,” Lecter said openly, reaching out with his hand to once more offer a seat, “because from what I have seen you have shown a desperate intelligence trapped beneath the shame of your sui generis,” Will could hear the words, but his eyes were trained on the lips that said them, watching, waiting, for a sign of falsity that refused to come; Hannibal Lecter stared at him without compunction or censure, “I would like to know you, Will, if you would let me.”

Walking back to his chair was a long road. Every step asked him a question: _Don’t you want to leave? Who would want to know you? Aren’t you afraid? Isn’t this all futile in the end?_ He knew it would be. Anyone who knew him well enough to call him friend ended up miserable in the end. Or dead. Sitting down made him feel complicit.

“So how does this work?” he said sourly, refusing to let the man have it easy, “You going to ask me lots of probing questions about my shitty childhood?”

“If you like,” Lecter said, “though I thought it would be more prudent to talk about more pressing issues. I believe you have troubles at work.”

“I wont talk about her,” Will said suddenly, finding the courage to look into Lecter’s eyes and hold the stare, “don’t waste your breath asking.”

“Actually I was referring to the new developments in you current case,” Lecter said.

Clearing his throat at least filled the silence. Maybe one was just as bad as the other, he thought. Was it any easier to talk about Lass than it was the multitude of the other people he’d been unable to save? Was it any easier to talk about his dead friend than it was to admit his own weakness, his own fears about the prejudice that threatened him on a daily basis. Will wished that it could be true.

“Things are escalating faster than we expected,” Will shrugged, “no one in the department is ok with it, it’s affecting everyone.”

“But not everyone is so intimately involved with the process,” Lecter rationalised, “you go where others don’t.”

“I see what the evidence shows me.”

“And what others show you?”

Stiffening in his chair, Will tried to control his tells and failed miserably. Taking a breath he felt his eyes scatter out across the room.

“Who told you that? Not Jack, that’s for sure.”

“I have many sources outwith your charming FBI counterparts,” Lecter said, “You are cagey of your talents.”

“Wouldn’t you be? Communing with the dead doesn’t generally attract praise. It attracts pitchforks.”

“You dislike this part of yourself.”

“What the hell has this got to do with my work?” Will asked.

“No lies, Will,” Lecter said, “I include omission in that umbrella of transgressions.”

“...It’s difficult to be validated in your theories when it is at the cost of human life,” Will said after a moment’s pause; Lecter waited for him to continue, “the only way to know that you’re right is to wait for another body to show. I don’t enjoy it, but I think that’s how people see me. They think that practicing magic makes me destined for hell.”

“And you disagree?”

“I don’t believe in hell. This life’s bad enough as it is. If it were to get any worse it would be a really sick joke.”

“So when you dispatched your intruders, you threw them into the void. No chance at eternity.”

“I only killed one of them,” Will said strictly, “and I wasn’t exactly contemplating their metaphysical destiny when I did it.”

“It was instinct, then,” Lecter said.

The word bit at him in the way a scared dog does: not maliciously but for protection.

“Instinct is a...it’s difficult.”

“A word to cover a multitude of sins?”

“Yes,” Will agreed, eyes shifting over Lecter’s face, finding no mockery there, “I’d say my status as a wiccan makes my life a scrambled mess, but to tell the truth I think I’d be like this even without the stigma. I...”

Will sighed, fed up of hesitating every time he tried to force a truthful word out of his mouth.

“This case is familiar, and I’m not sure I can control my reactions to that. I can’t go down that rabbit hole again,” Will was amazed he could admit it aloud; even with Jack all they could manage with each other was threats. Somehow this, here, was different. He just couldn’t tell quite why yet.

“Guilt is a powerful emotion.”

“So is fear.”

“Our fears make us cruel.”

“I’m well aware,” Will muttered out, rubbing at his shirt cuff, feeling the bruised skin beneath, “I just want to, I don’t know,” Will stopped, “this is a chance to make up for my mistakes. Maybe that makes me reckless.”

“I would exchange it for pragmatic.”

“Then more fool you,” Will said, one brow raised; when Lecter didn’t react Will sat forwards again, his _instinct_ trying for something shocking. The man before him was too collected for this sort of sordid information. Part of him wished to see it crumble, “I watched him die, the man who came into my home.”

Lecter didn’t move a muscle except to marginally raise his head, eyes never leaving Will’s.

“Yet you do not consider him your victim.”

“I don’t like to consider him at all.”

“Tell me Will, is it harder imagining the thrill somebody else feels killing now that you've done it yourself?”

That he found himself answering genuinely would shock him as he thought back to his session later that night. At the time, Will answered without compunction.

“It’s not the first time I’ve killed.”

“I see,” Lecter said; Will curled his fingers into fists and pressed his fingernails into his palms a couple of times before relaxing. It was difficult not to be irritated that Lecter refused to react, but then Will could marginally accept that it was the man’s job to be contrite and calm at all times, regardless of the conversation, “then you consider yourself a killer?”

“Yes,” Will said candidly.

Lecter’s eyes seemed to shift, and then in one smooth motion the man uncrossed his legs and sat forwards, mirroring Will’s stance.

“Self defence generally precludes a killing, it is a preservation method.”

“I didn’t do it in self defence,” Will said, shocked at the ease with which the words were coming out of his mouth; he licked at his bottom lip and wished he could have held to his conviction not to talk about this. Looking down at his hands Will wished he could think of something else, anything else, “I need to call in that favour, Doctor Lecter.”

“Of course.”

“Can we...not talk about this right now?”

“You do not need to ask as a favour. I am not here to interrogate you. Everything you tell me is in the strictest confidence.”

“I know, I just don’t want to, right now so,” he took a deep breath, “thank you.”

“Never feel the need to thank me, Will. I think that will be enough for our first session. No need to burn out too quickly.”

Will found himself nodding as Lecter stood to turn on a lamp by his chaise lounge. He squinted at the sudden glare before standing up, picking up the psych evaluation Lecter had gifted him. Reckless, he told himself, doesn’t even cover what you just told him does it. This man, Will thought as he watched Lecter from the corner of his eye as he went about turning on the lights all around his office, who he did not know from Adam. Who set his alarm bells ringing, even if he couldn’t explain why. Who put him off his guard with his open confidence and his attentive observations.

This man whose thoughts were closed to him, utterly and completely.

_Which, if you were to tell yourself the truth, is starting to intrigue you more than scare you._

As Will walked over to get his jacket he found Lecter there already, holding the garment for Will to put on. He watched the man carefully, nerves on edge, all still too close to the violence to chance the kindness.

“Why are you so desperate come near me, when I’ve made it quite fucking clear I don’t want you to?” Will asked angrily.

“That’s a question I have also been asking of myself lately,” Lecter said, offering Will his jacket before retracting his hand and lacing his fingers together, “you exude a particular air. Wounded animals have it, a certain quiver to them. It is distinct in the way a fingerprint is. Everyone’s trauma is unique. Yours draws succour to it, like a lamb to slaughter.”

“What,” Will said drolly, “because you think I’m going to bleed over your pretty office with my feelings again and ruin your book collection?”

“Because you attract what you cannot have, and then reject it out of hand because the very thought of it terrifies you.”

Will stared at him, mouth opening to rebuke but the words wouldn’t come. Taking a deep breath he jammed his arms into his jacket, shrugging it on roughly.

“And here I thought psychiatrists were supposed to get you to come to your own conclusions.”

“There are times when only blunt force trauma can assist, when patients purposefully blind themselves. I feel it is my duty to point out the chasms you cannot cross, before you fall into them.”

* * *

  
It was surprising to watch the man leave with such grace, considering he appeared, to all intents and purposes, ready to explode. Perhaps already had. Hannibal waited to hear the door to the waiting room close, and then the one beyond that which exited to the main hallway, before he turned and walked to the low slung black chair he always insisted his patients took. It was intoxicating, bewilderingly so; the closer he stepped the stronger it got. The fear made it sweet, but there was something more, something else beyond the base human emotions, something that spoke to him like an old memory, reached down inside of him and touched timidly, gently, at the core of his being.

Standing behind the chair Hannibal placed both hands on the back, leaned down and put his nose against the leather where Will Graham's neck had rested, inhaling deeply. _A scent with the dizzying quality of smoke, sinking down into his lungs like a euphoric elixir._ _D_ _ragging in a second breath it was impossible to keep his mouth from juddering open, teeth bared, eyes clouding_. _It was sultry, perfect and deeply erotic._

On regaining his senses, Hannibal unflexed his fingers, realising that the leather of the chair where they had been was rather irreparably torn. He made a small, irritated noise in his throat and stood, smoothing down his tie and slipping the hair that had fallen down onto his forehead back into place.

“So much for remaining impartial,” he said to himself.

* * *

  
He shouldn’t have dug it out, he knew that. Shouldn’t have even kept it in the first place. It had been the one out of the dozens that he’d emptied down the sink, and now it was the one that mocked him because it knew he’d never be able to hold up his end of the promise. Knew it had been kept because he wasn’t strong enough to resist. Will sneered at the bottle of bourbon and shook it, watching the amber liquid slosh and froth.

“I don’t care what you think,” Will said to the bottle, unscrewing it and pouring a messy glass, which turned into a messy _large_ glass, which turned into three messy large glasses. By the time Will was done, there was only a third of the amber spirit left filling the, now mainly clear, bottle.

“What m’I?” Will was asking no one; the dogs had all trotted off to bed upstairs, whether out of tiredness or a need to get away from his ranting he wasn’t sure, “A fucking two dollar mystic from a parlour above the Wallgreens, here to pander to his fucking...fucking tricks when he wants them?” grabbing the chalk in unsteady fingers, “Fucking prick. Fucking _pricks_ the lot of them,” he slurred.

Should have been difficult to draw but, even drunk, Will could pull off a mean summoning circle. He giggled to himself as his bourbon sloshed onto the floorboards when he leaned back to draw an anti-clockwise spiral of rebirth at the head of the circle. Then another, a triskéle; after removing his necklace with a bit of difficulty, Will placed the bone on the symbol, staring for longer than he should have until he felt the sadness creeping up on him. Shaking his head, he growled and leaned out of the circle to put his drink down and pick up the photograph he shouldn’t have. The one he’d stolen from the file Beverly had left lying on her desk.

_The man whose name he refused to learn because he was fed up putting names to faces of corpses with their insides missing._

The photo was placed in front of him, humming out a high pitched note of its own. Leaning forwards on his knees, Will placed his hands flat against the sides of the photograph and concentrated as best he could. In the corner a lamp buzzed, flickering.

“They took your tongue,” Will said carefully, feeling the vibration in the air, like the deep, low note of a cello, “as a symbol of your silence. Spiorad na foraoise, oscail mo shúile. Lig an veil a tharraingt ar leataobh,” the fumes on his breath took on an altogether different sort of intoxicating, _feeling like the oracle at Delphi, drinking deep of the sulphurous vapours_ , “no way to pass over, no hand to guide. If you have anything you want to tell me, now would be the time. Biotáillí dorcha, lig don phasáiste seo dul tríd,” as he picked up the ceremonial dagger and cut through the pad of his middle finger, scrawling a symbol onto the photograph in his own blood, a sparking ping filled the air and the bulb in the light shattered, casting the room into darkness.

Pitch black. Sitting back, Will sighed and shook his head. Hadn’t worked. What the hell are you thinking? He asked himself, and you wonder why Jack is scared of you. Not that he cared any more what anyone thought of him. _Liar_ , he cursed himself. It was difficult to think what maroon eyes and cupids lips would say if they saw him now. Will tried not to think about the man whose opinion he found haunting him.

 _Then the glow_. At first it was nothing but a soft light, like the winking of a firefly on a summer night. Then it grew, lighting the photograph from behind like an artist’s table. And above, barely lit, barely visible, the man sat cross legged, face hung forwards, his long black hair hiding almost all of his features. Only his mouth remained in view, lips stained rust red. Will breathed out and then in again quickly, letting it out slow. Swallowing he stayed still. The last thing he wanted was to leave the circle.

“What’s your name?”

The spirit stayed perfectly motionless. Will followed suit, slowing his breathing, trying to focus through the haze of alcohol and darkness.

“Tá cead agat,” he said patiently, “what is your name.”

“...they called me Mike. Michael,” the lips moved independently, as if there was a delay; behind the lips was the cavern of a tongueless mouth. Will wondered just how far gone he was but dismissed it out of hand.

“Mike. Let me be your tongue. I can speak for you.”

“I can’t find my way home,” the man said, gruff voice holding a hint of tears, “it’s dark. I can’t find my way.”

“I know,” Will nodded, guilt seeping in, “I know. I can help you, but I need you to tell me something first...”

“I just want to go _home_ ,” the spirit said tightly, lip quivering as he lifted his head, hair shifting, the hint of eyes staring out; Will went rigid and held his breath, swallowing, “they took everything.”

“Who did? Who took everything from you?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” the spirit let out as a pained, keening sound.

“Were there two of them? More?” Will asked quickly.

When the hands reached out and grabbed, it wasn’t the same as the hot, aggressive hands of Crawford. The touch was pressure born of will alone, _cold and terrifying in the way only death could be_. The hair over the man’s eyes was barely covering them now, revealing eyes without lids, the bulging orbs of white bloodshot, no iris or pupil, just a milky cloud, sickening and glossy. Keeping his nerve was all he could do, even in the face of his own mortality.

“Who killed you Michael?” Will asked steadily.

“...Three,” he said, his fingers flexing, “there were three.”

“Humans?”

“No. A man, a woman and a girl.”

“How did they capture you?”

“Silver.”

Will nodded, his theory affirmed.

“I wasn’t dead,” he said, choking out through the sound of tears, “I wasn’t dead when they started taking...everything.”

“I’m going to make this right,” Will said, “I’m going to make this right for you. I promise.”

“Tell Milly, please. Tell Milly Grey Pelt I’m sorry.”

In the space of a blink the pressure disappeared, the warmth returned to his arms and the lights in the kitchen buzzed back to life, throwing a stark shard of light out into the dark living room. Will found himself alone on his floor, sighing out long and slow in relief. When the howl came, drifting on the night air, Will thought it was one of the mutts upstairs. Through the barrier of two thirds of a bottle of bourbon, it took the sounds of a car screeching up his driveway to realise that it wasn’t. _The wards were jangling in his mind, the yapping, childlike cry of a fox wailing on the air._

His feet were unsteady but his mind raced, pulling him towards the sink, to yank open the door and grab the pistol there before hurrying to the front door and opening it rashly.

Headlights and howling. He saw the dog first, shaggy golden fur racing across the dirt, paws flying. The truck second, careening into view as a man, tall, balding, threw himself from the driver’s seat and ran towards him with a grimace. Holding up the pistol in both hands, Will tried to comprehend what the hell was happening.

“Get back here!” the man was screaming.

The dog had made it to the stairs, trotting up and letting out a yipping whine before circling around to hide behind Will’s legs. Turning to look down, Will could see the dark eyes of the dog staring up.

 _Pain and scared and don’t want to and sanctuary and help me help me help me._ Will hoped, when he woke up with an inevitable hangover the next day, that he wouldn’t regret this split second decision.

“Abigail!” the man was close enough now to see clearer, mid forties, eyes crazed, teeth gnashing, rifle in his hands; he stopped on seeing Will, gun raised.

“You need to go,” Will said as soberly as he could manage.

“This is none of your business,” the man’s voice was soft and reedy, juxtaposed to his violent demeanour, “give me back my property! Abigail, get here now.”

“She’s asked for sanctuary,” Will said, keeping the gun trained as best he could, even as it wavered back and forth; when the man made to raise his rifle Will squeezed the trigged and fired, the round barrelling into the ground just to the left of the man’s foot.

“ _Jesus Christ!_ ” he yelled, “What the fuck is the matter with you!?”

“Oops,” Will said, frowning as he gave the man a significant stare, “I missed.”

“You’re fucking crazy..!”

Another round, this one clamouring out with a crash. The man jerked around and let out a cry on seeing his passenger window shattered. He started back and nearly fell, regaining his balance as he backed away, even as his face showed that he wanted nothing more than to rush forwards and deal with Will.

“Who knows,” Will said with a deranged grin, “maybe if I stop trying I’ll get the hang of it.”

“You can’t keep her from me,” he was saying as he backed up, fingers tight around his gun, “you can’t run from me girl!”

Will didn’t move until the man was in his truck and backing down the driveway, turning and putting his foot down enough to leave runnels in the dirt. Watching the headlights bump and flit through the trees, the noise of the engine retreating. Lowering his gun Will clicked the safety on and leaned forwards, hands on his knees as the adrenaline began to ebb. The blood pumping through his veins was keeping him from wobbling as he turned, looking down in confusion to find the dog gone. Will looked up, lost, scanning his way into the house. There were yips and barks coming from the stairs as he ran, rounding through the kitchen to find the dog, standing, ears back, tail between its legs as it faced the pack, bottling up the stairs, all bared teeth and hair on end.

“It’s ok, it’s _ok_ ,” he said, putting the pistol down carefully on the windowsill and crouched down to get to eye level the worried animal who was now licking its muzzle and moving around on its front paws.

_Nowhere to run and can’t do this and please don’t make me!_

“I promise, no one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to,” he said, using his right hand to steady himself as he lost his balance, “it’s ok, I promise. That goes for you lot too,” he called up the stairs; the clamour on the stairs slowed to growls; Will stared into the dog’s eyes and spoke softly, “I know what you are,” the dog whined, letting out a bark, “sorry sweetheart, haven’t met a dog yet that I could read the thoughts of.”

If he had known that she would shift, right there on his rug, he maybe wouldn’t have gotten so low to the ground. One minute there was a timid dog standing before him, and next a pale, completely naked teenager, her big dark eyes full of tears and her skin marked with mud and scratches. Will leapt up, staggering and tripping over himself to turn around.

“Please, don’t be scared!” she shouted, her voice wavering.  
  
“Not scared,” Will stood with his back to her and shook his hands, muttering under his breath, ‘ _why does all the crazy shit always happen to me?_ , “just need you to put some clothes on.”

“But I...”

“Upstairs, on the right. Clothes. Wardrobe. Now.”

“I...ok. Sorry.”

The sound of her bare feet padding up the stairs left Will, standing facing the wall and wishing he didn’t have an eidetic memory. Banging his head against the wall didn’t seem to help.

“ _Ow_ ,” was all he could manage, rubbing at his forehead.

It was a short journey to the sink with the bottle, watching the bourbon flow down the plug hole and wishing, even though he knew it was utterly impossible, that his life could maybe just be that little bit simpler for a while.

Just a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spiorad na foraoise, oscail mo shúile. Lig an veil a tharraingt ar leataobh.  
> Spirit of the the forest, open my eyes. Let the veil be drawn aside.
> 
> biotáillí dorcha, lig don phasáiste seo dul tríd  
> dark spirits, allow this one passage through
> 
> tá cead agat  
> you have permission


	4. Harvest Moon

“How long has it been since you ate last, exactly?”

Opening the fridge Will let out a sigh. All that was left was a half finished packet of cheese and a pint of milk. Closing the door, he looked at the table, at the reason why. Abigail, remembering the name from her father screaming it at the top of his lungs the night before, sat at his dining table in a pair of his jeans and an old flannel shirt he used for painting in, consuming what little edibles he had in his house. Toast and jelly, porridge, the last of the cereal, two helpings of sausage and eggs. And as she scraped up the last out of the bowl, she looked at him like he might be next.

“Turning makes me hungry,” she mumbled, gulping down a whole glass of orange juice while he watched, frowning.

“I can see that.”

The result of the split second decision, he derided himself. Walking into the living room Will grabbed his keys to shove into his pocket, unhooked the phone from the wall, putting it to his ear and holding it with his shoulder. Dialling was easy, even if thinking about what he was going to say wasn’t.

“ _Good morning, Baltimore Social Services Department, Laura speaking, how can I help?”_

“Um, hello, can I speak to...”

He didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right on him and the receiver was yanked from his ear, leaving it dangling against the wall from the cord. All he could do was watch as Abigail, wild eyed, started jamming on the switch hook until the handset rang out with a dial tone.

“You can’t call me in,” she was saying, voice strained.

“Abigail,” he said, backing off when she growled, “can I call you Abigail?” he waited for her to nod, “I need to find you somewhere safe to stay. I’m not the sort of person that can look after you.”

“I asked you for sanctuary,” she said, her eyes just as large and scared as he remembered, “you _have_ to help me. It’s you people’s code or something, isn’t it?”

“ _You_ people?” Will muttered, raising a brow.

“A-and if you call them they’ll not listen, they never listen, and they’ll make me go back to him...” she was crying now and Will raised his hands, shoulders sagging.

“Alright, _ok_ ,” he said, closing his eyes, “just stop, please. I have a really, really bad headache. I won’t call, just stop.”

After spending the night making up his bed for the distraught teenager that had decided to hole up in his house, then spend the morning scrubbing chalk from his floorboards and making her breakfast, Will just wished he had some aspirin.

“I need to go to work,” he said, leaning against the wall and rubbing at his face; she was biting her nails when he looked over; reaching up he batted her hands away, “that’s a bad habit.”

“What’s it to you?” she scowled.

“Look, if I could find a friend to...”

“I’m only safe if I stay here!”

“...to look after you till I get home,” Will said, watching as she her face fell, abashed, “you won’t be safe here on your own. What if your dad comes back, huh? I have an obligation to keep you from harm. Just let me do that.”

If I live to be two hundred I hope I never hear the word sanctuary again, Will thought miserably. It had never been asked of him before, and Will wasn’t one to believe just for the sake of believing, but any witch asked for sanctuary by someone in dire need of it was honour bound. He wished he had time to contact his coven, ask for advice, but looking at his watch showed he was already late.

“We have to go,” he said, “I’ll call her on the way. Come on,” Abigail looked at him as if she wished she had the courage to speak up, “you trusted me enough to run all the way here in the middle of the night,” he managed a small smile which seemed to settle her if nothing else, “trust me now.”

Expecting the ride to be quiet, Will didn’t ask her any questions. Instead, slowly but surely Abigail began to talk. She didn’t look at him as he drove, just kept her eyes out the window as she leaned against the door and talked about her father, about how he beat her and her mother, about how he expected her to follow in the family expectations but didn’t elaborate on what those were when asked.

“How exactly did you find me?” Will asked as they pulled off the highway.

“Woman in town, at the market. I was getting fruit and she said,” he could see the reflection of her smile in the window, “she said she could see the magic in me. Dad never could but I think it’s why he hates me.”

“You practice?” Will asked cautiously.

“No,” she said, looking to him sharply, “I mean I’ve never tried but she, well, I think I can. She said I could. She told me there was a witch in the Wolf Trap woods who takes in strays so I waited till everyone was asleep and I ran.”

“Well,” Will said tightly, thinking back to the livid father with a rifle in his yard, “seems like you didn’t wait long enough.”

The drive back up the elm lined road was like a trial by shame. Parking made him feel slightly strange, as if he were just popping by to say hello, as if it were three years prior and everything had been wiped away. And, maybe, if he wanted it badly enough, that it could be true.

When the door opened Alana Bloom greeted him like a stranger.

“Can I help you?” she asked, just like a customer service operative programmed to fool you into thinking they gave a crap what your problem was.

“I know I have no right to ask you to help out,” Will said, "but I don’t have anyone else who would."

“You’ve got a hard neck,” she said, eyes cold, arms folded.

“I’ll come back for her when I get away from work, I promise,” Will said, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Alana looked past him to the girl leaning against his car, looking around her with paranoid jerks of her head. She didn’t look impressed but, after a moment, she looked down and shook her head, screwing up her lips.

“You owe me big time.”

“I know,” Will said, “thank you. I mean it.”

“You’d better.”

* * *

  
The office was busy when he stepped off the elevator, mainly phones he noted. As soon as one was hung up another was being answered. It made him nervous of more developments, nervous that he’d miscalculated and there had been another already. He kept to the perimeter, skirting the issue until he reached Crawford’s door, slipping inside.

“Maybe you should ask _him_.”

Will stopped short, finding himself the focus of four pairs of irritated eyes. Zeller’s and Jack’s he was used to by now, but Beverly’s he was just getting used to not seeing, and the last pair he didn’t even recognise.

“Will, come in and close the door,” Jack, sitting perched on his desk, motioned him in.

“I don’t know if I want to,” Will muttered, but closed the door nonetheless; the room was humming with tension.

It was easier to stay right where he was, leaning against the wall next to the door, in case of a need for a swift exit. The woman he didn’t recognise stood up, a painted on smile above her pencil suit and hard eyes below her short, all business haircut.

“So you’re the infamous witch,” she said, offering her hand in greeting.

Will stared at it before looking to Jack, brow raised, as he showed his gloveless hands, “You don’t bother to tell anyone, do you?”

“Physical contact is a problem for Will at the moment,” Jack explained.  
  
“I see,” she said, retracting her hand, “well, I’m sorry that this meeting has to be on such bad terms. My name is Kade Prunell, Inspector General’s Office. I presume he is up to date on the situation?”

That Jack sighed and shook his head made Will nervous. It was almost impossible to stop himself from scanning the room, trying his best to sort through the throng of faceless voices, flashing images threatening to overwhelm him. Not another, he thought through the fog of his hangover, please tell me there isn’t another empty corpse in the basement. In the end, what he found was almost just as bad. Blinking rapidly and rubbing at his forehead, he beat Prunell to the punch as she opened her mouth to speak.

“Tattlecrime’s been on the hunt again, huh?” he said sourly, looking to Jack.  
  
“So you already knew,” Prunell said, eyes narrowed.  
  
“I got a glimpse of it, yeah,” Will shrugged, letting out a chuff of laughter and looking off to his left as Jack gave him a ‘please don’t do this to me right now’ stare, “you think _I_ tipped them off?”

“Did you?” Zeller, sitting taught and nervous in his chair, bit out.

“I don’t know, have I leaked anything to the press about this string of ritualistic murders?” Will feigned recollection, “What the hell do you think?” he spat out, staring at Jack, “Was it Garrison again?”

“Howell Garrison no longer owns Tattlecrime,” Prunell said officiously, “but you have had dealings with them in the past.”

“If you count dealings with as being charged with assault, then yeah I guess I had dealings.”

“You attacked a journalist?” Beverly didn’t look disgusted, but she didn’t look happy about it either.

“He provoked me,” Will shrugged, turning back to Prunell who was less than impressed, “whatever they’re saying, I’m sure it’s something they got from a local cop at the crime scene. Howell was always an expert at wheedling tit bits from idiots.”

“Ms. Freddie Lounds,” Prunell said angrily, “is not interested in publishing tit bits,” she said, turning back to Jack, “I want this dealt with, Crawford. This sham of an investigation you are running was embarrassing when it was an internal scandal. Now the world knows and, in case you need reminding, it won’t be my head on the chopping block. Find your leak and nip it in the bud, before we have to escalate the issue.”

Will stood his ground as she pulled the door open and flurried past him, closing it with a decisive snap. _A visceral, unequivocal flash of Jack Crawford on his knees and, behind him still in her pencil skirt suit, Prunell holding an axe which she swung down with a furious, bloodthirsty battle cry._  
  
“Oh,” Will smirked, jerking his thumb towards the door, “I like her.”

The room was quiet on the surface, but beneath it bubbled up, everyone speaking but not voicing.

“Don’t get too giddy Graham,” Jack said, motioning him over, “I’m guessing you haven’t seen it yet.”

The website was even more garish than he remembered. The rust red background and the clickbait arrows covering the screen. It should have been a shock to see his picture, his face blown up in an insert bubble, but all it brought back was distasteful memories. Garrison had been a low rent hack with the talent of a box of rocks, but he could be vicious when he wanted to be. After Miriam, things had been difficult, and Tattlecrime had been the most damaging in that regard. He read the article slowly, ingesting every word this enigmatic Ms. Lounds had put-to-paper.

 _The FBI isn’t just hunting psychopaths, they’re head-hunting them, too, offering competitive pay and benefits in the hopes of using one demented mind to catch another. Sure, we’re familiar with the stereotype of the FBI profiler, swaggering onto a crime scene, fitting the pieces together like a master puzzler with his 1000-piece jigsaw. In reality, these profilers should be likened to harridans reading a cup of spent tea leaves – passing off their active imagination as incisive fact._ _In this case, the crone reading your fortune is an apt comparison, as Will Graham is a certified wiccan and practitioner_. _Not the persona any sane individual would trust with you and your family’s safety._

“You don’t really think I did this, do you?” Will asked wryly.  
  
“No,” Jack said stoutly, “but I’d be interested in who the fuck did.”

“It takes one to know one?” Will read the headline out loud, “Not very imaginative is she?”

“She didn’t need to be,” Jack said as he clicked again, taking them to the full story.  
  
“Jesus,” Will frowned, leaning in, “where the fuck did she get all of these photographs?” scanning down, catching words in bundles, _lunatic: organs removed: Institute for the Criminally Insane:_ _orphan:_ _cursed:_ _caffeine:_ _hunted_. Will blinked, backing up, searching for that word again.

 _...it’s not difficult_ _to see the curse following Graham like a shadow..._ he followed the line down, focusing hard enough to block out the sound of the others talking to one another… _apparently caffeine doesn’t agree with him. Could this be because…_ Will felt his hackles rising, reading further… _an orphan_ _whose parents left him to a witch cult…_ he thought he could hear his blood rushing in his ears… _a man who sees a_ _para_ _psychiatrist_ _like Hannibal Lecter_ _should_ _n’t_ _be hunting, he should be hunted…_

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered out, feeling an intense sense of justification, even as it presented as a stab in the back, “I need to make a call.”

“Will, wait…” Jack tried to stop him but Will was gone before he had the chance.

The bathrooms were empty on their floor. Will fumbled the yellow flip sign out of its cubby hole and stuck it outside, _Please do not enter, cleaning in progress._ Grabbing his phone he tried to bite down on the anger, rash and unstable as it was. The feelings were rushing fast and hot, waiting for the sound of that smooth voice, waiting to feel the vindication. When the phone eventually clicked to voicemail, Will let him have it.

* * *

  
“Thank you so much,” she was saying, tears in her eyes.  
  
“Not at all Marianne, it is my place to see you well.”

“You’re a saint,” she leaned in to press her hands against his chest.

“We must remember boundaries,” he said, stopping her in her tracks, “it is important not to confuse healing for affection. Make that a problem of the past.”

“Oh, yes,” she laughed unconvincingly, “of course, I...I’ll see you next week.”

Once she was gone, Hannibal Lecter took a moment to centre himself, sighing as his lips turned downwards. The people he worked with had always been servile, feeble and distressingly uninteresting in their psychoses. Now, having probed only marginally into the mind of Will Graham, he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep up the ruse with the normal pigs. His other patients were wearing on his last nerve.

Taking a seat at his desk he opened his patient journal and tried to think of something to write. He put the pen to paper and blanked, looking up across his desk, trying for something, anything. On noticing the red light flashing on his phone he sat back, sighing, before scribbling, _non sequitur_ against Marianne’s name and leaning over to press for his answer service.

“ _Message_ _from zero seven six zero zero eight two seven four five eight_ _received today_ _at twelve twenty three,”_ he listened vaguely, face leaning into his hand, waiting for the usual request for cancellation or tearful call asking for a phone consult. When the voice started, he felt his eyes flick to the phone sharply, “ _I know you’re there. I’m kind of glad, really, that_ _we don’t have to talk to one another. You’d just try and_ _use some fancy, piece of crap psychological technique to talk me down, try and explain away your horse shit. Your pretence of giving a fuck really needs work,_ _by the way. I thought that you’d have enough notoriety in your field already, but whoring yourself out to Tattlecrime really is scraping the bottom of the stinking barrel,_ _isn’t it?_ _Should have gone with_ _my gut and_ _ended all of this when I shut that fucking door in your smug face. Don’t call me. And if you feel the need to make another social visit, remember I keep my shotgun loaded.”_

Hannibal sat still, waiting for the message to begin giving him options to save or delete before he shut it off. Sitting back into his chair he licked at his lips and absorbed. It was important, he was sure, and so pressed to turn the machine back on and repeat it. The second time around was more entertaining, at least, even if still unnerving. Lifting his laptop out from beneath his new lamp, Hannibal logged in and searched, quickly and easily finding what he was looking for considering it was splashed across all of the news headlines that were offered up. He stuck with Tattlecrime, entering into the lair of hack journalism with a sharp, closed lipped smile, reading intently.

“It seems you have been most rude, Ms. Lounds,” he said to himself as he clicked into her profile, observing her arrogance through the tilt of her chin, the fierceness in her eyes, “what is to be done about that?”

* * *

  
“We’re running out of time.”

Getting Jack Crawford alone had been tricky, but doable. Will could tell he wanted to ask more questions about the leak, about where Will had gone and who he had called. In truth, he would have been happy to drop Lecter in the shit, but right then, as Jack stood in the break room with him, he let the chance pass him by.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Jack said, walking slowly to one of the cheap chairs before sitting in it heavily.  
  
“I think you know that we’re also running out of options,” Will said; Jack watched him with wary interest, “yeah, yeah, I know, it’s not that, well...it is that but it’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“I really hope you’re going to get to a point.”

“I have a name.”

“A name.”

“A name of a girlfriend, for our last vic, that I want to follow up.”

“Ok,” Jack said, watching as Will swithered.

“She’s a were, so I need you to check in the register. Might be difficult to track her down.”

“I’ll get a tag on her and send it down to Registration, let you know what we find,” one more ponderous silence and Jack snapped, “Christ, spit it out Graham, I really don’t have time for this.”

“The perps that killed him,” Will said quickly, “there were three, and they weren’t human.”

Taking a breath, Jack scratched at his cheek and looked to the door as if worried someone would enter at any second, “Do I want to know how you found this out?”

“No,” Will said truthfully.  
  
“Shit,” Crawford muttered.  
  
“Please Jack, let me chase this lead. I won’t tie it to the case until I’m sure,” he walked to the table Crawford was sitting at and stood close enough to murmur, thigh resting against the melomane, “you can’t be implicated if you’re ignorant.”

“Well doesn’t that just make me feel better,” Jack said, “do you think that all our vics, that they might have been half breeds?”  
  
“What, because one of them was a Were, now you think all of them might be?”

“You’re the one that said they were being eaten,” Jack said, “these killings are for a reason. If they’re being harvested. If this thing, creature, has a taste for humans then why wouldn’t it stick with humans? Why suddenly ask its cronies to send out for a wolf?”

“I see your point,” Will nodded, concentrating before he looked back to Jack, “I want to take another look at the victim's bodies.”

“Absolutely not,” Jack said, standing to his full height; Will backed away instinctively, “but I can give you access to their homes, all except the first. The family has already set into motion for sale, we have no right to re-enter.”

It was as close as a truce Will thought he might ever get with Crawford, and better than nothing in the long run. Nodding, Will thanked him and made to leave before he said something he’d regret. The last thing he needed was another fight. Just as he opened the door Will looked back.

“I want Katz with me.”

“I need her here, she’s still analysing the vics clothes and the fluids at the scene,” Jack said, “you can take Zeller, he’s finished the blood anatomy.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Will said coldly.

“No, I think it is,” Jack looked straight at him, forcing Will’s eyes to scatter away, “two eyes are better than one, and I don’t want you doing anything illegal.”

“Gee,” Will said acerbically as he stepped out the door, wishing he’d just kept his big mouth shut, “thanks.”

* * *

  
It was a long drive out to West Friendship, even longer with hatred riding in the passenger seat. Part of him had wished Zeller would get in the back and leave him alone, but instead he slipped in next to him and put the stereo on full. They spent the next hour ignoring each other, and Will had been glad at least for the blaring music; something to focus on and keep anything unwanted from slipping through. His mood was foul enough as it was without hearing anything degrading, a rotten cherry on top of the crap sundae.

The town itself was pleasant. Green and leafy. The sun was shining. Even when they pulled into the street at the house which was singled out by its black and yellow crime scene tape, things still seemed so very normal. The house was utterly average. Bungalow, white paint walls with a red door, a garden that had once been pristine now overgrown with weeds and molehills. The second victim Jessica Salome had been a waitress at a local diner, she kept odd hours and didn’t have many friends. Will applied Crawford’s acetate of a halfbreed over the framework of Jessica’s life and began to find a few parallel lines.

“So Jack asked us to come all the way back out here,” Brian was saying as he opened up the back of the SUV, unclipping his kit, “to check it over just one more time?”

“I never got a chance to see where they lived,” Will said, taking off his jacket and throwing it back into the driver’s seat, “houses tell lots of stories, more than bodies sometimes.”

“If walls could talk.”

“Right,” Will said, reaching in to take a pair of gloves from Zeller’s kit before walking up the short path to that red front door, calling over his shoulder, “bring the case notes.”

“What am I, you’re caddy?” Zeller bit back, but Will was already cutting his way inside, unlocking the door with the key Jack had given him.

Dusty strawberries and rotting meat, that was what assaulted him as the door opened like an ancient tomb, exhaling its last breath. Stepping inside seemed sacred somehow, as if they were bringing life back into the building itself, reanimating its withered body. A short corridor, kitchen off to the left all chipboard cabinets and linoleum flooring, tins of cat food still sitting out on the countertop, living room to the right with its brown material sofa, sagging in front of the television on a glass stand and a coffee table still with rings from cups imprinted on the surface. After looking around both rooms briefly, Will headed back to the corridor.

“They found her in the bedroom?” he asked as he heard Zeller walk inside.  
  
“Yeah, she was on the floor at the foot of the bed,” he said casually, curling the top sheet of the report over the top of the clipboard, “head towards the window.”

He could feel the temperature drop as he headed to the end of the corridor, ignoring the photographs and paraphernalia hanging against the dated wallpaper. When he reached the bedroom it was enough that he wished he’d kept his jacket on, rubbing at his bare forearms.

“What time did the coroner predict?” he asked as he walked into the bedroom, the white bedspread edged with lace and sprayed with dried blood, as it was up the walls, on the low ceiling and across the window glass. There were a couple of shadows in the spray, which made sense of Jack’s conviction that there had been two perps at the scene.

“Stan said anywhere between eleven and two in the morning.”

“It’s cold back here,” Will muttered, stepping in carefully.

“Didn’t notice,” Zeller shrugged.

The carpet was wiry and hard wearing, an unpleasant beige colour. It made it easy to see where she had been, the lasting ghost of Jessica outlined in the pooling blood stain on her cheap carpet. Hunkering down at the top, or so he guessed it, where he assumed the head would have been. Reaching out with his right hand he thought he might be able to imagine her there, _stroke her blond hair and tell her things were going to be ok_. She hadn’t been classically beautiful, the sort most people would look right past, but Will had been enamoured of her eyes. They were those of someone who’d known suffering, tinted with past sadness. It gave her an air of beauty he couldn’t explain.

“Ok, mind telling me what you’re doing?” Zeller asked, looking unimpressed.  
  
“I need to know whether or not she was a were, or a halfbreed of some sort,” Will said, pulling out a small zip up bag from his back pocket.

“Don’t even think about it,” Zeller said, frowning when Will didn’t listen, emptying the contents into his left hand; _sage, rabbit hair, ground ashes and blood, formed together into a cake and dried,_ “I told Jack I wouldn’t let you...”  
  
“Wouldn’t let me what?” Will asked, looking up at the man intensely, grabbing his matches and striking one quickly, the smell of sulphur dioxide rich in his nostrils as he set the flickering flame to the cake in his palm, “Considering you didn’t see anything, what could you possibly report back? Isn’t that right?”

“This is fucking crazy,” Zeller shook his head and backed away.

“Welcome to my world.”

It began to burn slowly, creating a small cone of fire that ended in a towering ribbon of smoke. He walked past Zeller, forcing the man to back up, muttering. Out into the corridor with the smoke following him like a banner.

“An carachtar sna ballaí, na cosa a shiúil na cláir urláir, na lámha a rinne an leaba,” he thought he could hear a sound rising, “Lig dom í a fheiceáil.”  
  
It was as he reached the edge of the kitchen door that it happened. A screech, like an owl would be to the mouse before the talons closed. Suddenly, the fire in his hand went out like it had never been lit in the first place. Will looked down, frowning worriedly, touching the cake and feeling the warmth there.

“There’s something wrong,” Will said, shaken, “it isn’t working, there’s something...”

He thought he could hear a noise, out of place, not a wail, not a screech, more like a tapping, he thought as he turned to look into the living room, a clopping a...

“Graham you’re freaking me the fuck out right now,” Zeller was saying, “what the hell, would you..?”

 _And then it was there._ Will couldn’t help but throw himself backwards with a cry seething out through his clenched teeth, barrelling into the cheap dining room set, knocking over chairs as he fell to the ground . _Right there, standing by the horrible glass coffee table, ebony skin and stretched taught like a mummified corpse over bone._ He tried to back away, struggling across the shiny floor, legs kicking, panicked . _Tall, taller than he could imagine, tall enough that its antlers scraped the ceiling and its long claws hung by its sides, trailing the tops of the chairs._ He could see Zeller rushing into the kitchen as if in slow motion. _It’s milky white eyes trained upon him as its hoofed feet moved forwards, raising one nightmare hand up and out and close enough to touch..._

He clenched his eyes shut and felt his body shaking, his jaw so tight that it hurt, his teeth grinding as he tried and failed to force words out of his mouth.

“Graham, what the fuck!”

Opening his eyes was difficult because he did and didn’t want to in equal measure. Finally he managed to peel them apart, finding the vision gone; nothing but Zeller, furious and terrified.

“Is this a joke, huh? At my expense?” Zeller was asking, jiggling on his feet, “Or you just lost it? Come on, should I be getting out of here or what?”

“Did you see it?” Will choked out quietly, already knowing the answer.

“See _what?_ ” he was asked, Zeller looking behind himself and rubbing his gloved hands together, “Christ, can we go now? I don’t think this is a good place to be.”

It felt as if every hair on his body were standing on end, but somehow Will managed to struggle to his feet. He felt as if he were leaving part of himself on the floor, still a quivering, traumatised mess, while the other part of him walked slowly forwards, intrigued enough to overwrite the fear. Mostly. There was something here, he knew there was. Zeller was still talking but Will couldn’t listen, couldn’t concentrate. Instead he managed to reach the spot he’d seen the creature standing.  
  
“Taispeáin dom do rúin,” he whispered out reverently, reaching forwards to touch the chairs, the table, the wall…

His eyes widened in amazement. The next thing he knew he’d pulled out the short folding blade he kept in his front pocket for collecting plants and cutting supplies, flicking it open and pulling back his arm before slashing with as much force as he could through the old paper, yellowed with nicotine.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” Zeller shouted, mortified.

“Help me,” was all Will could say, digging into the wallpaper with his penknife, ripping it away with his fingernails, “ _help me_ for fuck’s sake!”

For a moment Will thought Brian might turn tail and run, call Jack, call the police, who knew. To the man’s credit, what little there was of it to give, he hurried to Will’s side with a muffled curse and began stripping what he could. Once they started the wallpaper began to come away easy, far too easily if he thought about it, in long screeching strips as if the glue had been melted in just that spot alone. When they were finished they both stood back, away from the curling mess of paper on the floor, the dust in the air and the huge complex circular symbol they had mostly uncovered. It presented as a burn, but Will thought it looked gouged more than anything. Gouged with something hot, indelibly marked into the wood and plaster. Will didn’t recognise any of the symbols but they spoke to him, making his eyes itch. There was a peculiar smell on the air, Will thought, like sucking in acrid smoke through your teeth so that the taste ached on your tongue. The phantosmia left a burning in his throat that made him cough. When he reached out to touch, fingers feeling for the energy, Zeller grabbed his wrist without thinking.

“Don’t touch it!”

_A white hot wire shoved directly into his mind, like an electroshock to the temples. Thick clouds of contentment, flashes of a small boy running across green grass with a football in his arms, hatred and anger, an older man slamming a door shut behind him as a woman sat on the couch crying, fear and confusion, the redhead beauty, smiling at him like he was her world while he poured out their secrets for her, loving that she respected him, loving that she would choose him._

When Will managed to pull back inside his own skull he found himself on his knees, gasping, and Zeller curled away, clutching at his hand. A silence only broken by breath and muttered curses.

“Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ ,” Zeller was saying.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Will ground out, looking up, eyes screaming with anger, “got a thing for redheads, do you?”

“Just stop talking, just stop alright?”

“Does Freddie fucking Lounds have red hair, Brian? Answer my fucking question!”

“Why do you ask me anything, you already have all the answers don’t you,” Brian muttered out, face falling.

“You,” Will coughed into his hand and tried not to fall over, “you’re the leak.”

“Shut up, shut your fucking mouth!” Zeller was shouting, “It wasn’t like that! I didn’t...she lied to me I didn’t know who she was. God dammit, why’d it have to be _you_ of all people.”

“I told you not to touch me,” Will said faintly, eyes closing without his consent, forcing him to shake his head to keep them open, “no one ever listens.”

“Jesus,” Brian’s face fell as he slumped against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floorboards; he looked at Will, eyeing him as if gauging whether he could take him in a fight.

“Listen you dumb piece of shit,” Will said with all the energy he could manage, “I really don’t have time for your indiscretion, and neither do you. I need to get to the other crime scenes. This might be the only clue that we’ve missed so far. I need to know what it means and if it’s at the other sites. It shows premeditation, and maybe even that the perps had access to the house before the murder.”

“You’re not going to tell Crawford about me?”

“What good would that do?” Will asked, brow raised, “I’m not petty enough to ruin our chances catching this thing just to watch _you_ suffer _.”_

“I…thanks,” Zeller looked unconvinced but hopeful, “I think.”  
  
“Don’t mention it.”

As they headed back to the car, his feet stumbling and his light head making him a little unsteady even as the sunlight helped clear the cobwebs, Will had a sudden, horrible sinking feeling in his gut.

 _The answer machine message,_ _sending up a flare over his landscape_ _of screw ups_ _._

“Oh shit,” he thought, rubbing at his face as he leaned against the SUV.

Brian opened the driver’s door and looked at him expectantly.

“Get in Will, come on.”

“You rash, stupid bastard,” Will muttered to himself; he pulled out his phone and thought of calling to apologise, but it was just as impersonal as the message that had got him into this mess in the first place. Instead he got into the car and pulled the door shut.

* * *

  
“Can you keep her with you for just another hour?” Will asked as he pulled into the end of the unfamiliar street.

“ _Why is it any time you make me a promise you break it?”_ Alana said, her voice stuttering in and out a little as he jerked up the handbrake.

“At least I’m consistent,” he said as he looked out at the row of veritable dream houses, all neat in their palatial rows.

“ _Consistently dreadful,_ ” she said, no humour.

“I mean it, I will be there within the hour, I just really have something I need to do before I come get her, ok? You’re saving my life,” he tried for a smile, hoping it would manifest in his tone.

“...Fine,” she said, though it sounded anything but fine.

“Thanks Ala-...” he heard the call cut off before he could finish, pulling the phone away from his ear so he could stare at the screen, puffing up his cheeks before letting out the air with a pop, “well that’s just great.”

His day could have been worse, he thought facetiously, at least he hadn’t burst spontaneously into flames or fallen off of a cliff. It had taken longer than he’d hoped to find the caustic symbol at the other murder sites, but they had managed to pull it off. _One on the floor beneath an oven, thick with dirt and grease, one behind a radiator in a bathroom, one under the carpet in a closet._ Each one hidden from view, and each one identical to the last other than varying in size. On their return they found Jack had already headed home, for which Will was both annoyed but, on another level, glad. He kept Zeller back to help him write up the report, for which the man was sullen but compliant, and then messaged Jack to tell him they’d made some progress.  
  
An easy escape, for one night at least. Though the mystery of it still plagued him, _something else occupied his thoughts just that little bit deeper._

It had been snowing, leaving only vague patches across the urban landscape of the inner city. Getting out of the truck and locking it behind him, Will shrugged into his jacket and blew into his hands before putting on his gloves. It felt to him like he was burning bridges all around his little island. The worst and most ironic part, he thought to himself as he began walking towards Lecter’s house, was that he hated being alone. He liked to think he should have more pride in himself, that he could admit that without a psychiatrist’s session dragging it out of him kicking and screaming. But he couldn’t. Hadn’t, anyway, until Lecter had shoved the truth in his face and asked him what he thought Will was going to do about it. Another reason he had been so quick to leap down the man’s throat at only the vaguest hint of betrayal.

Taking in the strays was all he had left, but it wasn’t enough. Not any more.

The sound of a door opening pulled him from his reverie. Looking up past the wall at the bottom of Lecter’s garden Will watched as the front door opened and a man emerged. Later, Will wouldn’t be able to explain why he did it, but in that moment his instincts told him to hide. Ducking down behind the wall, Will listened as voices murmured to one another, unintelligible at this distance. Risking it, Will peered up over the wall, seeing the man’s face for only a second before he turned his back. It was familiar, Will thought, but he wasn’t sure why and couldn’t think off hand who he was. He watched them talk briefly before the man trotted down the stairs, looking pleased with himself, and slid into a sleek black Mercedes. He breathed a sigh of relief as the Mercedes drove off in the opposite direction, purring softly as its tail lights disappeared behind the tall trees lining the street. The last thing he’d want was to be caught skulking in the neighbourhood like a common thief. Standing up made him feel like a fool. Will grimaced, shaking his head and putting his hands in his pockets.

“Good start to an apology,” he berated himself as he pushed through the gate and walked towards the front door, “so sorry about chewing you out for something you didn’t do, by the way I’m spying on your house guests. Hope that’s ok.”

The snow had stuck to Lecter’s three story house like a picture postcard, dusted icing sugar snow on the roof, icicles hanging from the Grecian portico and upper storey window. The bushes lining the path were tall, gangly winter jasmines, effusive with perfume from strings of delicate white flowers. There was smoke coming from the chimney, leaving a large part of the left side of the roof devoid of snow. Standing at the grand double front doors Will felt the need to turn around and leave things where they stood. Maybe it’s for the best, he thought suddenly, maybe I shouldn’t…

Remembering Crawford stamped out the tiny match-like flame of that particular thought process. Will hung his head and sighed, reaching up to ring the doorbell, a prisoner awaiting his sentence. God Graham, he rebuked himself as he heard footsteps approaching, you’re so over-dramatic.

“Tell me you have forgotten som…” Lecter was part way through saying, looking over his shoulder, before he turned and stopped.

Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and running his teeth over the sensitive flesh, Will took a breath and waved half heartedly from the hip.

“Not who you were expecting?” he asked.

That Lecter didn’t reply at all just made Will feel worse. So used to seeing the man in his double breasted suits, worn like classical armour, to see him dressed in a carmine shirt beneath a chocolate vest and trousers, no tie and top button loose seemed overly invasive. The air was deadened by the cold, the snow on the ground softening everything, the sounds of the city seeming far afield. Looking off to the left, at the tall, bright windows of the first floor, Will continued.

“Look I’m sure you’re sick and tired of hearing me apologise to you by now,” he started, swallowing, “I am no good at being social, never have been and by this stage I’d say it’s fair I probably never will. But that doesn’t excuse what I said to you. I assumed you had leaked my information and it was my mistake. So...I was thinking maybe you want to refer me on to someone else. That would be best, and...yeah,” looking back to Lecter the man had not moved, other than to brush the hair against his forehead back from his left eye, leaving the dark swathe still falling against his skin, “Then that would be that. Sorry to,” Will felt his lips twist wryly at the apology, “bother you this late.”

Walking back down the path Will felt like he could smell the flames, the wood, hear the bridge collapsing. It serves you right, you stupid moron, Will told himself. Every chance you get, you screw it up. Lecter’s words from their last session bit at him: _you attract what you cannot have, and then reject it out of hand because the very thought of it terrifies you._

“And yet you did not drive over an hour in the snow just to tell me you wish to see other people,” Hannibal suddenly spoke up.

That the words stopped him dead in his tracks only made Will hate himself all the more. Can’t even have the courage of your convictions, can you? he thought as he half turned, shaking his head.

“It was an apology,” Will said sarcastically, “not a proposal.”

“Meeting the world with humour only works if you are not wearing a mask.”

“I don’t want a fight,” Will said, agitated.

“Then perhaps we could socialise like adults,” Lecter said as he stepped out into the growing dark; as he approached Will felt a need to back away mix with an equal need to walk forwards to meet him. It was sudden and over in a flash but he felt shaken by it. Lecter seemed to exercise a feeling of confused magnetism in him that Will couldn’t fathom, “god forbid we become friendly.”

“I don’t have a good track record with friends,” Will said, blinking as he took a deep breath and tried to steady himself.

“What a coincidence,” Lecter said, tilting his head and looking out across his garden as it faded into the evening gloom, “I have been told I have issues with trust.”

“And you chose me to test your teeth on?”

His words garnered a short but playful laugh through closed lips. It sent a jolting, pleasurable tingle across his spine, like someone running fingers over his bones.

“I’m the sort of man who spends his time building walls,” Will tried harder, feeling his lips chap with the cold.

“Then it is natural to want to see if anyone is adamant enough to climb over them.”

That dreadful curiosity which had been building ever since he’d thrown Lecter out of his house in a panic, mixed with the fledgling murmur of possibility, was no longer bubbling as it was boiling. _The possibility of someone strong enough to withstand the misery inherent in his life, confident enough to call him out on his bullshit, and generous enough to offer themselves despite the obvious_ _detriment._ And all of it, every single last conception and idea and question and plan he could build regarding the man was blessed, marvellous guess work. A beautiful enigma the likes of which he’d never known.

Only one thing stood in the way, one more wall that needed scaling.

“I need to ask a favour of you Dr. Lecter, and you can ask one of me in return whenever you like,” Will said as he pulled at each of the fingers on his right hand glove until it was loose enough to remove; Lecter was watching him intently, seeming to enjoy the symmetry of Will’s request mirroring his own. He watched as Will pocketed his glove and then extended his hand, holding it out between them. For a moment Will thought he might have overstepped, misunderstood, but then suddenly, without compunction, Lecter reached out to accept his offer. Will braced himself, ready for the shock, the misery that would come with knowing too much, hurting and pushing away and losing all connection to another human being.

When the soft palm slid against his, long fingers curling around to grip, Will returned the handshake out of amazement more than anything else. It was disconcerting and bewildering, but at the same time utterly and completely wonderful. Will couldn’t remember a time when he’d been able to focus in on the feel of warm skin against his own, the pressure of another against his body, without drowning in thoughts and feelings that weren’t his own.

“You look surprised,” Lecter said as Will stared at their joined hands and smiled.

“Oh, uh,” Will shook his head, voice lilting on the hysterical side, “it usually just a little more...interesting than this.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Lecter said, though he didn’t look it.

“What _are_ you?” Will asked softly before he could stop himself.

“Perhaps I should be asking the same question,” Lecter said as Will, seeming to come to himself, pulled his hand away and shoved it back into his glove, “but I think it will be mutually interesting finding the answer.”

“I need to, uh, sorry, I have to pick up, I mean Alana is waiting for me,” Will rattled out as he backed down the path, “thanks for...” Will blanked, still shocked, “...everything.”

“Good night, Will,” the man said calmly, all but silhouetted against his bright doorway.

“Night, Hannibal,” Will said, testing the name on his tongue and finding it savoury, with a hint of fizzy distress thrown in for good measure.

* * *

“Where were you?”

It should have been such a simple question, and yet had manifested as a labyrinth he wasn’t sure he could see his way out of. In truth, wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

“I had to check in with your friend Lecter,” Will said as Abigail gave a cursory, shy thank you to Alana before hurrying to Will’s truck and hopping in; they watched as she turned on the radio, the muffled sound of changing stations leaking out into the quiet country air.

“Everything ok?” she asked; Will could tell she hoped it came across uncaring, but there was a genuine worry she couldn’t mask. It was the thing he loved most about her. Alana Bloom was unfalteringly kind, even when she was angry.

“Is anything ever?” Will replied gently; when she gave him a look he nodded to appease her, “It’s fine. It’ll be fine, I mean.”

I hope, he thought. Rubbing his gloved hands together, Will couldn’t help but feel the sweet electric pressure there, the memory of skin against skin. It was distracting. Hating to lose focus over something so base, Will tried his best to remain in the present.

“You know, only a little while ago you sounded like you wanted to ring my neck.”

“Mm hmm,” was her reply, looking up into his eyes purposefully.

 _A yellow of acceptance pulled through with a misery of blue creating a sordid green of self-loathing that brought the sadness back to her own doorstep._ Will hated the thought, even as he tried not to feel glad that she wasn’t going to tell him to leave and never come back. Again.

“Did she talk to you at all?” he asked.

“A little, but nothing substantial. Honestly? I gave her the remote and left her alone except for watering and feeding. She’s a sad one, isn’t she.”

“Yeah,” Will nodded, “yeah she is.”

“You need to speak to a professional about her, get her help.”

“Already trying,” Will said, itching at his neck, “she’s not making it easy, but I’ll think of something.”

“Have soapbox, will travel,” she said, her hair tumbling over her shoulder as she leaned into the door frame; when she reached up towards his face Will jerked back, making her frown. That she tried again amazed him, that she’d tried at all sang to him like a siren song. He forced himself not to react, feeling her push through his hair, moving some wayward curl back into place.

_Thinking about telling him she’d spent the day resenting the poor girl he’d lumbered her with because Abigail would be getting to go home with him while she would be left here alone, and that it had made her feel terrible. Even now she was thinking about curling up in front of the space heater with him and the dogs. Just contentment._

The caveat to his life, _always knowing_. It was draining, always understanding your own expectations but at the same time knowing that you could never live up to other peoples.

“Are you ever going to just slap me and get it over with?” Will asked contritely.

“Don’t hate you enough,” she said truthfully.  
  
“I would. By now I really would.”

“I hope Hannibal can help you,” she said, making Will fidget, “because you’re worth it, under all the booby traps you have set up in your personality, waiting for someone to step too close. I hope he can help you see that, because I never could.”

“He’s an...interesting man,” Will said, unable to hide from the irony of his statement.

“Unflappable too,” Alana said wryly, “which should help when dealing with your neuroses.”

“I can be pretty flappy when I want to be,” Will said, making her smile, “Thanks again,” he said quickly, blinking, “I have to go. G’night.”

“Night, Will.”

He didn’t rush back to the truck, but he didn’t saunter either. It was always difficult to be judged, but even more difficult to be accepted. Will hoped that Alana was right.

“Did you have a nice time?” he asked as he got into the truck and started backing out.  
  
“I like her dog,” Abigail said, shrugging.  
  
“Yeah,” Will said as he waved goodbye to the woman in the doorway, feeling the heavy burden of _always knowing_ , “me too.”

* * *

  
The landscape was a solid black canvass. Walking across its surface left an echo as his well shined shoes clacked, leaving a vagueness to the scope of the arena.

The first to arrive was a shadow, barely a shade lighter than the backdrop. As he approached it solidified, coalesced. _Standing with his back to him, khaki jacket over jeans, hands in pockets and grey eyes behind glasses and beneath unruly curls as it peered at him over its_ _hunched_ _shoulder. Ready violence and red stained hands, sucking in the brutality he encountered and absorbing it like a sponge.  
_

“What are you?” it asked through a mouth unseen, accusatory.

As he passed by the man kept his eyes on him at all times, heavy with suspicion and a want to lash out, to protect.

The next was not unexpected. It seemed to slink upwards through the darkness as if it were an oil, dragging itself out onto the surface. _All_ _pale and soft lines, naked skin shining as if in moonlight, it got to its hands and knees and crawled, sleek, jaguar-like,_ _his_ _shoulder blades working beneath the_ _muscle_ _. As it reached him the hands started at his legs, grasping with fingers like claws, soft moans rumbling in its chest like a purring cat, then up to his pelvis as it pulled and gasped, the body climbing up and up, hands against his shirt, legs twined with his own, fingers trailing his throat as those bowed lips whispered seductively into his ear._

“What _are_ you?”

He moved on, searching. _The next was almost indistinguishable, a balled up mess of limbs sitting on the ground_ _dressed in nothing but white t-shirt and boxers_ _. A man curled in on himself, legs folded so knees and ankles were together, arms up over his head and face hidden from the world._ _His shoulders shook as he wept._ There was a need to reach out, to touch the nape of his neck. He brought a need for comfort but seemed to despise the very thought of it.

At the mere press of fingers the figure looked up, face stained with tears, now nothing but a child with familiar grey eyes.

“What... _am I_?” the boy managed to squeeze out through gritted teeth.

Continuing on was difficult. The darkness seemed to stretch on into infinity. Lost. _Alone_. It was deafening. It was absorbing. It was like falling. _It was like fading._

By the time it appeared, he thought he might have given up at the penultimate moment, _that he might have been mistaken all along_.

It appeared as a trickle of grass in the darkness. Finding nowhere else to go his feet followed, shoes melting away to nothing as the grass grew and curled beneath his now bare feet. Keeping to the lush greenery allowed for plants to shoot up out of the abyss like a time lapse, animals popping into existence like bubbles, scattering and sniffing, trees looming in, branching out, creating a wondrous canopy as he descended inside. A profusion of sap and bird song enveloped his senses, leaving behind all thoughts of before.  
_  
And there, in the clearing,_ _it waited_ _. Under the sunlight its raven feather-fur was_ _a_ _stunning_ _panoply from purple to green_ _, glinting like obsidian while plush like velvet. Walking like a hunter, slow and soft, he kept himself in its blind spot. The raven stag snorted, shaking its glorious raiment, pawing at the ground with its hooves._ As he approached the smell of blood reached his nose. _There, at the hoof, a grossly unjust clamping trap_.

On taking another step he knew he had been spotted. _A great, black eye_ _was_ _watch_ _ing_ _him_. Testing the waters, he moved forwards. _The stag let out a snort but merely shook its great antlers and waited_. Kneeling down against the lush grass, he reached out and took the trap in his hands. The edges were sharp, enough to cut in as he grabbed tighter and pulled. _The stag let out a low bray mixed with a piercing whine, lifting its head to the sky above_. The blood ran and his palms bled, teeth gritted, feeling the slice through flesh and bone.

 _Clack, ping._ The great stag leapt free with a bleating whinny and rushed, limping, into the forest. Giving chase was his only option, even as the blood caked the ground, as his life slipped into the grass and the trees, fertilising the soil. The sunlight seemed to dim, to fade, the greenery shrivelling, the darkness reclaiming its territory. His legs felt leaden, the soles of his feet burning, reaching the edge of the thicket on his knees. Head hanging, breath coming hard, eyes on the void below. The expense had seemed to be for naught, and the sacrifice for little but to corroborate his suspicion.

_When the hand appeared in his vision, direct but tentative, curious but afraid, it was all he had to lift his own and grasp it. It shook his matter of factly, as if unsure what the procedure truly was._

In his sleep, Hannibal Lecter smiled, shark-like, and rolled over on to his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An carachtar sna ballaí, na cosa a shiúil na cláir urláir, na lámha a rinne an leaba. Lig dom í a fheiceáil.  
> The character in the walls, the feet that walked the floorboards, the hands that made the bed. Let me see her.
> 
> Taispeáin dom do rúin  
> Show me your secrets


	5. Musical Bones

“ _But many are saying, especially in light of recent events, that harsher penalties for the unregistered and stricter laws...”_

“ _Grace, if I may interrupt you there. Harsher penalties? Stricter laws? Do these sound like immediate solutions to you? Believe me when I say we have a bone fide spree on our hands, and the best we, the American people, can be offered is piecemeal legislation. Which, I might add, will do nothing to stop the slaughtering that is running rampant in Maryland as we speak. And what’s to stop it from spreading? How long till we have Unnaturals killing right and left with no one to hinder them?”_

“ _I resent that term. And I suppose you would have us all locked up, that right? This whole debacle is one whisker away from the Salem witch trials..!”  
  
“And if those trials were to happen today we would have to tiptoe our way around all that dark magic in case someone got offended! All that can be done, right here, right now, is for the government and the Registry to step up and issue some sort of wartime decree.”_

“ _Wartime? Are you even listening to yourself? You are the reason my children don’t feel safe going to school!”_

“ _You’re children shouldn’t be at school with my chil..!”_

“Yeah,” Will said as he picked up the remote and shut them up, “and fuck you too buddy.”

Taking a long sip of lukewarm ginger and lemon tea, Will sighed and felt the weight of it on his shoulders. The sudden silence was welcome, but tinged, tainted. Things were becoming fraught now that the truth was out. People who were never scared by supernatural goings on were now scared, and those who were always paranoid that the unnaturals were coming for their kids would be, as the delightful governor of Texas had alluded to moments ago, on the warpath. _A string of occult killings in the Baltimore area, now being identified as serial killings: a repeat of the terror practiced by the unknown subject who had held the moniker of the Chesapeake Ripper.  
_

“As if my job isn’t hard enough,” he muttered to himself.

Lack of sleep wasn’t helping. _Itching. Crawling. Sudden tremors._ Not that he could really remember the reason he hadn’t slept, just knew; from the aching in his joints and his eyelids betraying him, _closing, closing, jerking open_. Sinking down into the sofa cushions seemed like giving up, giving in. He tried to rationalise that it was necessary. Will let his eyes have their moment and, just for the sake of sanity and harmony, tried his best to relax.

_The bleating of a stag, pained and terrified._

His eyes flew open and he sat up, taking a deep breath as the sound persisted in the room. It took a few seconds to realise it was coming from upstairs, _screaming._

“Will? Will! I need hot water, the shower’s running cold!” Abigail shrieked from upstairs.  
  
“Then you used it all up,” he called, his heart beating a mile a minute; he clutched at his chest and cursed himself for being so jumpy.

“I've still got shampoo in my hair!”

It felt like a hook, slipping under the skin, barb catching, pulling. He set about boiling the only two kettles he owned on the stove. Will was sure this was a fantastic reason he’d never tried to have a relationship that would have ended in kids. The thought called a cynical smile to his lips.  
  
“Sure Graham,” he said wryly, “ _that’s_ the reason.”

When the kettles began to whine, _scream_ , he pulled them off the heat quickly. Even though she didn’t seem to be able to stop talking most of the time, Abigail was particularly closed lipped whenever Will tried to ask probing questions about her family. No further than her father’s abuse and her mother’s silence on the whole affair. Whenever he brought up talking to either of them face to face the girl would go ashen and quiet, enough that Will had been forced into a corner by his own moral centre. Walking up the stairs with a bucket of hot water, Will wondered why this split-second decision had worked its way under his skin and made a home. Enough that he barely questioned it when he entered the bathroom, Abigail wrapped in a large bath towel, rubbing her eyes, hair soaped with suds.

She just leaned her head over the bath.

He just rinsed the soap from her jet black locks, running his fingers through her hair.

They didn’t talk. Will fetched a small towel from the airing cupboard, dropping it over her head as she squeezed out the water. Couldn’t help but smile when he reached down to rub the towel vigorously.

“I’m not a child!” Abigail complained.

“Yeah, I know,” Will answered simply, standing up to leave, pulling the door closed behind him.

Was this the culmination of being human? he asked himself. Love and acceptance. Two things he wasn’t sure he would recognise. It was difficult to recognise something you had never truly seen, not _truly_. The closest he had come was a woman who haunted him, a shadow following his in his footsteps, a wraith trailing in his wake.

 _Easy_ , _so easy. An intrinsic, simple easiness between them. Another person who knew him so completely, enough to_ _bear with_ _him,_ _to listen without judgement, to believe_ _without compunction._

“And this is why you own dogs,” Will said to himself as he set about cleaning up breakfast, mouth a hard line; an old lie pulled out of a dusty box he kept specially for himself.

By the time she reappeared, Will had finished what had to be done. Retrieved what he needed from the barn and laid it out on the table before beginning to spin the tight little spells into something useful. Had been a long time since he’d done anything so intricate under a time constraint, but he was sure he remembered the basics. If he was to tell himself the truth, he would have admitted it was exhilarating.

He would have told himself, _blood still soaked into the floorboards, the girl in his house, and the feeling of skin against his palm as they shook hands,_ that he hadn’t felt this alive in years. The thought made the itching worse.

The task was a formality wrapped up in a need, a drive, as most spells were. A ritual to equate with an idea, a purpose, a drive. _Twisting vines, strangling the heart of the raven. The rune carved into the flesh holding tight to the charm, so much that there was a desperation radiating from its core that Will did not appreciate. The thought made him feel the fingers at his throat, crawling and creeping; the threat of attachment._

“Shouldn’t you maybe modernise and get central heating?” Abigail was grousing as she thumped down the stairs.

“Never really bothered me before,” Will said distractedly as he picked up the fruits of his labour, “come on. I have something I want to show you.”  
  
Outside the air was crisp and clear. He could smell more snow coming on the horizon, see it in the fluffy edges to the clouds that rested just above the line of pine trees behind the house. There were motes suspended in the air, drifting like insects, creating a lazy, shifting pattern of volume; an understanding of the area, like a map. _His bubble, delicate and exposed._ As the wind blew it shuffled the tree branches, _horses_ _tossing their manes_ _,_ _the whinny in the breeze._ It caught under the roof, across the drainpipe, creating a sound like a cello. Deep and resonant.

Standing in the garden, Will knew things were changing. Not just in the media, not just with the case or with his life. Abigail being here was changing things, moving the pieces. Without trying to think too much about it he pulled the charm out of his pocket and turned it around and around in his hands.  
  
“How come the plants still grow in your garden even though it’s winter?” she asked; he turned to find her running her hand over a large snapdragon, tall, the buds showing colour before the flower bloomed, “is it a spell?”

“This ground is blessed,” Will said, putting his hand out palm down, fingers spread as he patted the air.

“Blessed by what?” she asked, eyes wide, _eager_.

“Just blessed,” Will said cagily; he knew that things were worse than he imagined when he was actually disappointed in himself that she looked unimpressed with his answer; he crooked his fingers and summoned her closer. Her eyes flicked up and down, quickly, _always so uncertain and so twitchy_. When she sidled up to him he tossed the charm to her, causing her to catch it on instinct.

_Important to be taken wilfully, taken into her possession with the drive of a raven catching the mouse in its claws._

“What the hell is _this_?” she asked, frowning at the twist of dried vines holding their secret inside; she lifted it to her nose and smelled it. Will wondered if it was a leftover from her canine form, a need to sense everything through smell as her most heightened sense, “ _augh_ , it reeks!”

“It should,” Will said, making her glare at him pointedly, “it’s been dead for a while. Condenses the essence.”

“Of what? Why would I want some dead thing?”

“Raven heart. And because it’s a charm.”

“A charm?” she said sarcastically, “No offence, but I think I’d rather have something more...substantial.”

“It’s plenty, believe me.”

“Can’t I have a gun?” she asked quickly.

“ _No_ ,” he said definitively, making her scowl, “now I need you to promise me you’ll keep that with you at all times,” she rolled her eyes and opened her mouth but he cut her off sharply, “ _Promise_ me.”

“Alright, gees,” she groused, looking down at the charm, frowning, “I will. I promise. Why does it even matter?”

“It’ll keep you safe.”

“How?”

“Stop asking so many questions,” he said sharply; she started, eyes wide, before skittering her gaze away across the plants, the grey clouds.

“Can’t you show me any spells? I thought you could help me.”

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, eyes on the ground.

“But..!”

“ _Abigail_.”

She shut down, hair falling over her eyes. _Your split-second decision._ She’s yours now, if anything happens to her who knows what will become of you? Even you don’t know, not really. And I’m not willing to find out the hard way, he told himself sternly. The rite of sanctuary was ancient and sacrosanct. A magic of binding. A magic of twine and blood.

“I can’t take you to Alana today. I told her I was going to do something official regarding your care and, as I clearly haven’t, you’ll need to stay here,” he muttered, “I have the wards set, and a couple of surprises for any unwanted visitors,” she looked at him, intent, dark eyes large enough to fool anyone into thinking she was nothing but an innocent child, “but if your father comes here looking for you don’t wait, alright? I want you to run with the pack. Do you understand me?”

“What if he..?”

“Run with the pack, they’ll keep you safe,” he interrupted her question, making her swallow her words back down her throat; he knew how he was being, a sullen piece of shit to keep _the attachment_ at bay, “They can take you to a place in the woods, to a place no one can find without them” he gave her a significant look, “Do you _understand_?”

“Yeah, I get it. Ok.”

“Good.”

_He knew it wasn’t just because she was upset that he could hear her. He knew that it meant he was too. Upset. On edge. Itchy. Her eyes were looking at the charm in her hands, but her mind’s eye was at the table with her mother and her father. They were eating breakfast, and they were smiling. The feeling of desperate love was overwhelming, enough that it made him sick with envy._

“Can’t I come with you?” she muttered hopefully, already knowing what answer she would get.

“My work isn’t exactly bring your daughter to work day friendly,” Will said wryly.

It was only as he was getting into his car, giving her a wave, that he realised the Freudian slip. Not for the last time, Will would regret his split-second decision.

* * *

  
“You think this is a simple fucking thing? You think this is your annual family barbecue with clowns for the kids and champagne and hors d'oeuvres for the stuck up pricks, _for fucks sake_ get you head in the game. You are an insignificant little worm crawling through the dirt of this planet and I am the fucking bird waiting on the grass above for you to wiggle, _just wiggle wrong once_. I will reach down through that dirt and take your flesh in my mouth and I will devour you alive. You will get this right,” she annunciated each word with precision through ruby red lips, “or you will live with only regret.”

Chilton felt like telling her that right now his only regret was having opened the door to his ample house when the bell had rung. Only not having answered would have caused even more havoc. Still. The panic was making him reckless. He knew it did. It worked on him like a virus, shaking down his cells, producing the fear like a hormone. Made his hands fidget. Made his palms sweat.

In comparison she looked ethereal, beautiful like a siren on a rock, calling him closer so she could lock her teeth around his neck.

“You know it’s that sort of talk that got us all into this mess in the first place,” he tried to say cockily.

“Don’t attempt to be clever,” she sat up from lounging in his large chair in his home office, red soled high heels clicking against the wood, “it doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m doing the best that I can,” he face turned sour, “there’s only so much I can do before people start to notice. And I have put things in motion, alright? Pawns are in place.”

“Since when do pawns have pawns?” she asked, bored as she played with a small ornament of a bull at the edge of his desk; when she pushed it off with her bright red fingernail it was a jolt to the system, an innate reaction, to catch it, “Oh dear, Frederick, don’t tell me. Sentimental.”

“From my life before,” he said, twiddling the badly made bull in his fingers: he shouldn’t have left it out, so careless. Turning it and turning it, seeing the words carved into its belly like a testament. _For daddy,_ “I’ll get results,” he said, eyes hard, “Any day now we’ll know if he's what we need.”

“There are plenty more little pawns I can choose from you know,” she smiled, “You were my first choice because you stink of servility. You’re a natural born maggot.

“It’s our delightful chats, that’s what I love.”

“Get,” she said, “it,” she stood up, “ _done_.”

“Well why don’t _you_ make your man fall in line?” Chilton bit out, like a small boy trying on his father’s shoes, “He’s the one in prime position to..!”

“He’s not my man, even you should understand that. No one makes him fall in line.”

For a hot, flashing instant he thought he might have seen her _give_ _pause_. The actions of a person experiencing fear.

“He terrifies you, doesn’t he?” Chilton gloated.

“You think that’s funny?” she asked, smiling cruelly, “you’re the one that doesn’t understand what fear is. Because you have been to dinner doesn’t mean you aren’t on the list. Even now, he isn’t picky.”

Sniffing, Chilton pretended not to understand her intent, putting the little figurine back in place.

“None of us would have chosen this life, and its difficult for this to be impersonal,” she said as she walked past him; he could feel her there, just out of his peripheral. Not being able to see all of her set his nerves on edge, “but this isn’t only about you. We need team players, Frederick,” a hand clamped down on his shoulder, “team fucking players.”

She showed herself out, signalled only by the slamming of the front door. The snap left him bereft. Doing the best you can, he told himself acidly, isn’t fucking good enough is it.

* * *

“I got Price.”

Having spent his night mainly sleepless and his morning mainly neurotic, Will hadn’t had the energy to feel optimistic. That he was actually being given good news was bewildering.

“...You _did_?” Will said, an involuntary smile flickering into place as he and Jack walked along the street together, “Well, that’s great! I thought he was off working on some big semiotics indexing project?”

“He was,” Jack said, his stride long enough that Will had to take an extra step to catch up, “then I sent him a picture of the seal you found at our victim’s homes. The only message I got was that he was on the next flight to Baltimore once he’s handed over to his colleagues. Should be here by evening.”

Their footsteps fell into line, like the clacking of a newton’s cradle; synchronous but parallel. He could feel the truth in it, their polarised existences. A bridge that couldn’t be built between them. Will wondered if he’d always known it, or whether everything that had happened with Miriam had shown him. It didn’t matter, that’s what he told himself. In the end it didn’t matter. Jack was a part of the journey, that was all. A part of his ritual.

“Are you going to try and get along with him this time?” he asked.

“Only if he isn’t still so relentlessly chipper,” Jack said sullenly, “Would be a lot more helpful if _you_ could just tell me what the hell it is.”

“I’m a Practitioner, Jack,” Will said, strained, “not a walking Necronomicon.”

It was a silver lining, at least. Jimmy Price was not only an expert in his field, but he was a committed expert, enough that people sometimes viewed him as a bit of a fanatic. He would be indispensable. The sunshine of earlier had given was to the clouds on the horizon, and now the grey and mustard tinted sky was a blanket waiting to shed. To chill the earth. It was reflected in the building they climbed towards, stairs long and low and wide, all glass and steel like a mirror. Jack’s silence was telling.

“Then it is something bad,” Will said as they walked up the stairs together.

“Not necessarily.”

“Tell me Jack,” Will said as they walked through a concrete archway, past the guards there, into the well lit atrium, “if you were going to drop your life’s work to run after a photograph, would it be a good photograph or a bad photograph?”

Crawford didn’t reply, and thus had _replied_. In turn they went through the rigmarole of the security gate, _scanned, patted down and_ _emptied of anything they deemed unnecessary._ Will came out the other end feeling lighter and yet heavier.

“Thought you wouldn’t have wanted to accompany me here, of all places,” Jack said as they continued together.

“I get a kick out of it,” Will lied with an acid smile, “still glad you brought me?”

“Not really,” Jack sighed tightly.

The Registry was not somewhere he believed anyone was happy entering, human or otherwise. Though the otherwise would be less thrilled, he admitted. If Quantico was a seventies concrete block, the Registry was a glass and steel construction of the future. It was easy to see the divide between the government bureau with its limited resources and the Registry with its privately funded coffers, dripping in money from the private security force to the thumb print scanners on the doors to the LED screens in the lifts and the marble on the floor.

“Seems like there’s still a heavy pay cheque in hunting and skinning,” Will said, voice taught, as they emerged into a long corridor, black and white flecked floor shining under the delicate lights.

At the far end were cathedral windows, stained glass shining through onto the white walls. Their crest of the vitruvian man, and beneath the coda: ‘ _ad imaginem dei_ ’. Will snorted and shook his head as he and Jack walked towards the only other feature of the corridor, the long low receptionist’s desk in teak and with a young man sitting up in his seat, prim and proper and groomed to within an inch of his life, skin a wonderful caramel, dark eyes and hair. Will wondered how far the Registry’s motto applied to it hiring process. He wondered if being a good looking, well kept individual was part of the contract.

“We’re here for an appointment with the Amanuensis,” Jack stated.

“Can I please take you names?” the man’s voice was radio quality.

“Jack Crawford, and this is...”

A shrill ring that made Jack’s lips thin as he fished in his pocket for the offending phone. He lifted it to his ear and spoke shortly, then lifted a finger at Will and walked further down the corridor; _something serious_ , Will thought. It was just as he had needed it to be. Will looked to the man and locked eyes.

“I think he was supposed to say my name,” he said smoothly, garnering a quick, easy laugh from the receptionist, “Will Graham.”

“Ah, yes, I have your appointment here,” the man said as he typed.

“Yikes,” Will said, sucking in air through his teeth and aiming to look as contrite as possible, “I hope he isn’t going to make us late. Who is it today?”

“Your Aman will be Dr. Unger.”

“I mean, I don’t mind going in ahead,” Will said, touching at his chest, “if that would help us both out?”

The receptionist hesitated for only a moment, during which Will leaned both his forearms on the counter, cocked his head and _smiled_. The man blinked, before ducking his head and laughing. When their eyes met again, Will could feel it.

_A stickler for satin sheets, he could feel them against his back as his skin dented where he bit at his finger, wicked machinations going on below the belt. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d screwed a client._

“Go right ahead,” the receptionist said, pushing a button to his right that made the door behind Will click.

“You’re a doll,” Will winked, skipping in through before Jack noticed.

The Scriptorium was utterly quiet, enough that when the door closed behind him it became a low lit sensory depravation tank. His ears needed to pop, making him work his jaw to try and equalise the pressure. The room was long and low ceilinged, soft grey carpet beneath his feet and strip lights above. On either side of him were rows of cream coloured cubicles, like the teeth of some massive beast long dead. Walking forwards Will thought he might be able to hear his feet against he ground, but wasn’t truly sure as he swung his head left to right, checking the name tags on the doors. When he found his it was instinct to knock, but he was sure that would be frowned upon. Instead there was a button by the door that simply said ‘ _press for entry_ ’.

Will did as he was told. The door slid open. A faint smell of disinfectant leached out.

Inside it was bright enough for him to squint. Two chairs in a white box, one already occupied. For a quick flash Will thought he could see _Hannibal Lecter’s office, two black chairs facing one another, between which truth fed one way and not the other_. The thought was intrusive and he wished it gone, not to think of him here, not now when he needed to concentrate.

Instead, when he blinked he found himself faced with a woman in her fifties, hair in a strict bob, skin sallow and clothing utterly, depressingly the same white tone as the walls. Her blue eyes crept up to him slowly as he took the seat across from her.

“Dr. Unger,” Will greeted her.

“G-R to J-A,” she said mechanically, “do these parameters meet your standards?”

“Uh, yes,” Will said, startled, “they do. But I was hoping for files,” he frowned, looking around the utterly empty room.

“All information will be given through this conduit,” she said, placing her hand on her chest, “no information will leave without sanction.”

“You,” Will said, taken aback, “ _you_ are the…ok,” he took a breath and rubbed at his mouth, “no wonder the Registry has never been hacked.”

“All files are sacrosanct,” she said as if it were words she spoke in prayer, “and all identities my priority. G-R to J-A. Please state the name.”

It was destined to fail before he even tried, but it didn’t stop him. When he delved in against the mind of the woman it was like falling through a library codex that he had no knowledge of, no way to interpret. Her mind was a well, hundreds of miles deep and hundreds of miles wide. Numbing and disorientating, trying to decipher her neural network from scratch like a child crawling around with their eyes on the ground. Will found himself pulling back sharply, rubbing at his temple. He shot the door a quick look and hoped he had enough time before Jack walked in and stripped him of his one chance.

“Hobbs, Abigail,” he said, hoping he wasn’t screwing himself by putting her first in his clandestine search; _no computer, no paper trail,_ he told himself as the woman closed her eyes and went completely silent.

After a few minutes the woman opened her eyes, looked straight at him and said.

“No known file. Do you have the correct name?”

“Oh, no, I guess I don’t,” Will said, hands bunching to fists on his thighs; I should have fucking known, he thought, unregistered. Why is she unregistered? What is there to know about you Abigail, that you don’t want on record?

He wasn’t sure, in that moment, why he wavered. The next name he needed to say was obvious, essential. This was as close to the truth as he was ever going to get. Jack’s lax nature mixed with his guilt at the trauma he had caused, that was what had brought them here. Without him Will knew he’d never get this close to this again. Never get this chance again.

“What about...” he hesitated, blinking, _are you sure you want to, are you really sure you want to know this_ , “Graham, William.”

The answer came back almost immediately, enough to make his face fall.

“Unauthorised access,” Unger said, “you do not have clearance to access that file.”

“I don’t have _clearance_?” Will repeated, laughing, stunned, “What are you...what clearance would I need to have?”

“You are unauthorised,” she repeated.

“But I, that’s who _I am_. That is me. I can’t access my own file? _Why_?”

“You do not have the correct clearance.”

He couldn’t quite accept it, enough that he opened his mouth to ask again. Only the truth stopped him, _that madness was doing the same thing again and again and expecting a different result_ . What the hell would they have on me that’s so god damned secret? he thought angrily. As he sat, arms folded around himself, slouched in his seat, he wondered if there was relief peppered in with his shock and anger. _It could be worse, Will, you could have found out everything, and then where would you be? You could have found out everything and then your fantasy of a family would be nothing but stories._

“How about Grey-Pelt? Milly Grey-Pelt,” Will asked coldly. The case was all he had now, the only other way forward, “It will be her pack name,” he added. The woman ignored him, closing her eyes once more. When the door opened with a soft rush of air and Will looked up to find Jack.

“Couldn’t wait huh?” he said accusingly.

“Quiet,” Will said, putting his finger to his lips and jerking his head to the Aman.

Jack looked furious at the order, but folded his arms and waited. When she finally reported, Will listened intently.

“The Grey-Pelts. Registered pack in Maryland. Jacksonville area. Twelve members. Nine adults, three cubs.”

“Are any of the others named Michael?” Will asked.

“Negative,” she replied, making Will sit back. Even past the ire and the confusion at his situation, the workings of a theory niggling at the edges of his mind.

“Can we have her contact information?” Jack cut in before Will could ask anything further.

“Of course. Sidecar Bar and Grill, Jacksonville. If they wish to talk to you there, then she will make herself available.”

“With all due respect...” Jack scoffed, clearly not thinking about respect at all.

“We are unable to divulge home address or subjects of communication,” Unger stated, “do you have any further queries?”

“None,” Will said, standing and ushering Crawford out of the door.

They left as quietly as they had arrived, enough that exiting the Scriptorium and going back into the receptionist’s hallway was like walking into a busy airport in comparison. Jack was suspiciously quiet, but Will knew he was aware of the discrepancy, _of how long Will had been gone compared to how much information he could have gathered in Jack’s absence_. It amazed him the man hadn’t started a tirade already. Will rubbed at his face, trying to ignore the sudden and invasive thoughts of the receptionist as the man looked to him, sly smile in place. The surprise, the fear, still clung to him, like strands of spiders web stretching and bending and wrapping around.

 _What’s so god damned special about you, Will Graham?_ He asked himself, dread nipping at his footsteps.

“Get what you came for?” he was asked.

“Sure did,” Will said, so lost in thought that he didn’t realise it wasn’t the receptionist who had spoken.

Will was forced to jerk to a stop before he walked straight into the man before him. Backing up was involuntary, but necessary. The man watched him closely. In his peripheral he noticed Jack stand next to him; it felt like ownership, enough to rankle, to make his skin prickle. He felt like telling Crawford that his protection wasn’t tantamount to possession. But then between Jack Crawford of the FBI and Marcus Hopkins of the Registry, he felt like a shiny toy being fought over by toddlers.

“Graham,” Hopkins said smoothly, flashing his regular, white teeth against his pale skin and lips, blonde hair making his complexion all the more waxen, “what a coincidence. I saw a delightful article about you the other day.”

“Hopkins,” Will returned, his worry making him quick to _bare teeth_ , “you have a terrible taste in online journalism. Who knew the vice president of the Registry reads the _Tattler_. How humiliating.”

“Oh, everyone has their vices,” the man said, barely reacting, “Agent Crawford, it’s always a pleasure.”

“Of course, Mr. Hopkins,” Jack said professionally, thought Will could feel the obsequiousness; it made him sneer, “is there something we can do for you?”

“Just saw you and your little pet had logged in at the front desk,” Hopkins said as if he were describing a day out to the beach; Will narrowed his eyes at the moniker, “It’s been what, two years? Didn’t know you were ready to go back into the field, what with all those tricky problems you’ve been having.”

“Not as many as you’d think,” Will said, “not as many as you, what with all that blood on your hands.”

“Considering we can safely proclaim to have wiped out nearly every known full blooded Unnatural in the United States, perhaps you have a point,” the man said unpleasantly, “Well, anyway, I thought I’d stop by and see how you were.”

“Just peachy,” Will cut in before Jack could answer.

“Really? That’s not what the newspapers are saying.”

“They’ll print anything these days, won’t they?” Will said acerbically, eyes lifting to focus in on Hopkins’ deep blue gaze.

The man’s smile was taught like piano wire. In there, Will thought, is it in there? All the access to me that I don’t even have? What do you know? What do you _know?_

“I do hope you’re not thinking of trying your tricks on me, Graham.”

“If I ever feel like diving into a sewer, I’ll let you know,” Will replied lazily.

“My apologies,” Jack said, nudging Will towards the elevators, “we’d best be getting back to work.”

“Not at all,” Hopkins watched them go, “it’s always a pleasure, Will. If you ever feel the need to donate yourself to the research facilities downstairs, you know where I am.”

“What, the big room with the manacles on the walls? Oh, Marcus,” Will shook his head and pouted his lip, “when _are_ we just going to fuck and get this over with?”

“How gauche,” Hopkins replied dismissively as he headed to the door to the Scriptorium.

“You can cut the sexual tension with a knife,” Will stage whispered to the receptionist who smiled and laughed on instinct, before falling utterly silent as his boss sent him a stony glare.

Once the elevator arrived, Will stepped into it backwards, keeping his eyes on Hopkins as Hopkins kept his on Will. The stare was only broken when the elevator doors closed.

Despite his loose threats he hoped he never found out what the research facility looked like.

“Just can’t help yourself, can you?” Jack was saying, clearly furious, when Will tuned back in.

“Ah,” Will shrugged, “the dying man doesn’t fear the cliff Jack. Can’t I have a little fun?”

“Not at my expense,” Crawford said, glaring.

“When the hell did he get to be so fucking high up?” Will asked no one, “The last time I saw him he was a lab tech, petitioning the FBI for Lass’s...remains. If there’s one thing I can thank you for Jack, it’s making sure that she didn’t end up at the end of a scalpel blade in this hellhole.”

“Trying to say I’m not a complete monster?” Jack asked, with no love lost.

“Spoil sport,” Will said through gritted teeth.

* * *

  
“ _I haven’t_ seen _her! How many times do I have to tell you? We’ve been working archives, looking over cold cases, for days now. You know that, why are you asking me? We’ve been living in a box underground, we don’t talk to anyone about the case, we weren’t supposed to be involved any more. She works, she comes straight home, she showers, she feeds her cat, she goes to sleep. Rinse repeat. She can’t have found anything relevant, she can’t have tried to...”_

 _Sitting down didn’t calm his nerves, it made his nausea worse. Leaning forwards Will pressed his elbows to his knees, hands clasped to his mouth, crushing against his lips. His heart was beating thick and slow against his chest, a rhythm he couldn’t rely on, irregular, confused. He felt dizzy. There were people, lots of people, moving around through the rooms.  
  
No one was here, the one in which they sat, at least. Not this one, _ the bedroom. _No one but him and Jack. No one but the sick and the dying. Miriam’s home was warm and comforting, simple and unfussy but with a hint of messiness that used to drive him crazy. Now there were people here, touching all of her things, turning out neat chests of drawers, photographing and tagging. He couldn’t stand it, what it meant._ Vultures picking over bones. _  
  
They hadn’t found the cat._

“ _I can’t...” he swallowed, closing his eyes, “she didn’t say anything to me. She_ didn’t.”

“ _This is important, I don’t have time for your bullshit,” Crawford was behind him, he could hear the words but feel the presence more, “dammit Will! She could be...”_

“ _She isn’t. She’s just,” he stalled, “isn’t, she can’t be. It doesn’t make sense.”_

“ _Take a look, please.”_

 _It might have been the first time he’d heard his boss say the word._ Please _. It was unnerving. Made him realise how crazy he must sound, how shaky and manic. Will felt sick, standing up suddenly enough that Jack pulled back from him. He reached out and offered his hand, keeping his eyes averted. Jack huffed out a sigh but handed over the piece of paper regardless. Will felt it touch his fingers and blinked stiffly, wrapping them around it as if it were possibly dangerous,_ like a spider around a wasp.

 _The logic came to the fore as a barrier, a hand to hold him apart from the horror of the situation._ Focus, _it demanded._

 _The paper was thick, good quality. It had been folded, twice; once horizontal, once vertical._ She had kept it hidden somewhere, not part of the file _. Maybe in her bag if the curled corners were anything to go by. As he unfolded it revealed a classical drawing, something that tickled at the back of his memory._ A man, pushed through with a multitude of weaponry, a corpse mapped out in anatomy, opened up for everything inside to be removed and described in detail _. It appeared to have been ripped from somewhere, the page torn partway down the middle. The text was in medieval Latin. It appeared to be some sort of manuscript reconstruction, a medical document perhaps. It was then he realised that it wasn’t paper at all, it was vellum. The pock marks of skin gave it away, pores where the hairs had once been._

“ _You any idea what this is? Is it even relevant?” Jack was asking.  
  
“I’m not sure,” Will said, frowning, feeling the intent in the drawing, the heavy sinking feeling that it transmitted to his nerves, “where did you find this?”_

“ _It was in her purse,” Jack said, “on the coffee table.”_

“ _Her purse is here,” he said, “her phone, her wallet, her keys,” he closed his eyes and heard the tremor in his hands as the vellum shook and rattled, “oh god. This isn’t it. This can’t be what it is.”_

“ _I don’t have time for your feelings. Neither does she. We need answers!”_

“ _Part of it is missing,” he managed to breathe out through a throat thick with fear, “There’s something missing from the top of the page,” he ran his fingers over the frayed edge, “did you find anything that would...”_

“ _Sir,” came a voice from the doorway; Will stalled, watching as Crawford walked to the young agent, “they’ve found something.”_

 _It should have been easier. That’s what he told himself, over and over. It should have been easier than this. When they drove to the site Crawford kept his foot on the gas like a madman._ Hope _, Will had thought. It had been hope that gave Jack impetus, that made him tick, that gave him the will and the need to carry on at all costs. To believe that if he drove fast enough, if he shouted loud enough, if he pushed Will hard enough, that everything would work out just as he hoped._

 _What is it you have? He asked himself as Jack slammed on the brakes and leapt from the car. What is it that makes you tick, Graham, when you always know. You always_ know. _Know that it was over. Know that it was all over for her and for him and for the investigation. As he followed, walking through the mess of security, the flashing lights from police cars, under the crime scene tape, up the steps, past the guarding police officers looking worried and unnerved, he found it sitting incongruously on top of a balustrade at the head of the stairway by the park bench where they had sat two days prior to have lunch._

They had talked about her family. About her brother’s birthday. She had asked him what she should buy for a man that didn’t like gifts. Will had told her she was asking the wrong guy and she had laughed. Now it was soiled, the air heavy and oppressive.

_A sign._

_A curse._

_A testament to his failure._

_An implement of torture._

_The Chesapeake Ripper had torn open his world and emptied out this morsel of agony, as if daring him to_ pick it up and swallow it whole _._

“ _Jesus Christ,” Jack was saying, shocked, sickened, turning away on the spot and rubbing at his forehead before covering his eyes._

_The arm had been severed just below the elbow. The fingers were curled delicately, nails unpainted but clipped and manicured beautifully. And at the curve of her wrist, there, the large freckle she had sometimes worried about enough to think of going to the doctor. On the underside of the forearm, the scar she’d told him her brother had caused when she was four, so faded now against the pallor of dead skin. Will found himself walking forwards with his hand out. It seemed right, wasn’t it, to greet her? Slip his fingers into hers and hold them tightly. He brought his other hand over, to clasp them close._

“ _Where has he taken you?” Will leaned in, whispering, smelling the ammonia, the decay, “you can tell me. You have to tell me. Come on,” he could tell he was raising his voice because people were coming now, rushing, he could hear them, “tell me! Fucking tell me! Tell me where you are!”_

_Hands around his shoulders, Jack urging him to let go, feeling her fingers slip away as he was pulled back, legs crumpling beneath him. Will sucked in a rasping breath and screamed._

* * *

  
The sound of the windscreen wipers kept his thoughts in beat, _thump whine, thump whine._ The snow had finally arrived, falling on top of that which had not yet melted. The greying slush on the roads was piled up like sand banks, making their journey seem predestined, like a leaf floating down a river. With every wipe of the blades the vibration rattled through his system; Will liked to imagine it could travel through his mind.

 _Let the pendulum swing_. Only he wasn’t sure what it would leave if it did, what it would leave behind as a nugget of his own truth. _The core of Will Graham, exposed and bare_. The thought scared him. Shaking his head he focused on the road, running endlessly beneath his tires.

Not that serenity was attainable when the source of the irritation was so close by.

“Could you maybe not just,” Will leaned over to flick the heater on, hot air blowing out in a rush, “sit there in silence? You’re making my mind itch.”

A glance, a twitch to his lips and a hand reaching out to stem the flow of the fan heater down to a soft hushing, and Hannibal Lecter said his first words to him that day. Considering Will had picked him up twenty minutes prior, it was an achievement by his standards. Will was sure he wouldn’t be rude to say the man liked the sound of his own voice.

“I thought you appreciated silence,” Lecter said; he had been sitting still, eyes closed and head back against the headrest.

“Yeah, I’m starting to realise it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he muttered, turning out as the lights changed, “you didn’t even bother to tell me why you’re here.”

“And yet you conceded without explanation.”

“Not without,” Will said quickly, “I’m asking now, aren’t I?”

“Jack Crawford is currently indisposed, and your delightful colleagues are preparing for the arrival of you fifth band member. Five is a terribly odd number, I hope it does not cause friction.”

“Then maybe you could add yourself to the mix and even it out again,” Will said, then realised what he had said, “since that’s apparently a thing,” he added facetiously.

“Much like yourself I doubt I have been given the choice. Jack Crawford wants me to make sure you are of sound mind and body,” Lecter closed his eyes once more, “and apparently visit bars in Jacksonville.”

“Can’t take credit for things you agreed to without me. Or take the flack, whichever. What are you smiling about?”

“Peeking behind the curtain. Curious how the FBI goes about its business when it isn’t kicking in doors.”

“I don’t need you breaking me down to a crumb of FBI procedure. Honestly, I probably won’t be a good example if that’s all you’re here for.”

The city gave way to the suburbs gave way to the forest. The day continued to darken to a sullen grey. The snow stopped, leaving them bereft of the _thump whine_ . Without it Will felt the silence crawling over his skin, _the trick of the insects_ _up and down over the hairs on his arms_. He considered turning the radio on but passed over the choice. Lecter critiquing his choice in music might have ended in him throwing the man from his truck for good.

“So,” he said as he slowed down to a standstill, cursing the midday traffic, “what’s in this for you?”

Lecter, whose eyes had been fixed on the world outside the window since their conversation had run dry, blinked languidly and turned to address him.

“Is this how you base all interactions? On a barter system?”

“Professionally,” Will explained, “no one gives anything away for free.”

“I am being paid,” Lecter stated as if it were obvious.

“Yeah, and you don’t look like you could use the money,” Will said derisively, “Alana told me you only take select clients, and I’ve seen your house, your wardrobe, your car. You don’t do this for the pay cheque.”

“Not all pay is monetary. The psychology of the supramundane. It is a fascinating subject through which I make my mark on the scientific community.”

“I’ve read your papers. A Counselling Approach to the Parapsychological Experience.”

Will put his foot down and did his best to contain the irritation of how slow they were crawling forwards. In the last leg of their journey they had hit a traffic jam, one he couldn’t see ahead to gauge the length of. There was a need to blast the horn just to vent a little of his building frustration.

“Your thoughts?” Lecter asked.

“It was dry.”

“Science is rarely poetic in journal form.”

“I preferred the one about Science and Supernature. It was more on the mark.”

Putting on the brakes again Will let out a harsh sigh and sat back, chewing at the inside of his mouth. Lecter’s lack of reply drew his eye. The man was watching him intently as Will wiggled the gear stick into neutral.

“What?” Will asked.

“I would prefer any commentary you would make to be straight forward.”

“You think I’m trying to dismantle you like you’re dismantling me?”

“I understand you never liked to be alone in a room with Alana either. This must be difficult for you, but there is no need for us to be enemies. I would rather avoid the tit for tat, if possible.”

Curling his hands around the steering wheel didn’t help. The worn material creaked and Will wished he’d risked the criticism and just put on the damn radio. Now they were talking, and Will didn’t have a good enough reason to stop.

“My whole life has been spent being picked apart by others. All pulled apart and swallowed. I’m used to it, though. Or I thought I was. It’s not the same with you.”

“Oh?”

Had been a long time since he’d had to explain. It hit home how few times he’d had to in the past couple of years. The last had been Beverly and Zeller mere days ago. Now it was the man who sat, prim and proper in his three piece, Windsor knot tie and pocket square, in the passenger seat of his truck.

_Skin against his palm, soft pressure without consequence._

“Did Jack even tell you? I don’t know, I always just assume he has,” Will stopped; Lecter’s blank stare gave nothing away, “I can read people’s thoughts.”

“Then I shall add it to the list,” Lecter’s mouth ticked up at the edges and, without wondering why, Will laughed.

“You’re making me sound pathological.”

“Aren’t we all?” the man said easily, “But you have not elaborated on why you are telling me this now.”

“Yeah, I know.”

The thought was still so absurd, so bizarre, that to an extent Will thought it might have been some sort of aberrant, psychological problem. That there must be a reason beyond the physical that explained why the inside of this man’s mind was utterly inaccessible. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Is this something you had passed to you genetically?”

“Asking if my parents were also freaks of nature?” Will rebutted.

“The people around us explain us in detail, a dish under the microscope. As we seem to be in the mood to share?”

“What gave you that impression?” Will asked acidly, rolling his eyes when Lecter merely licked his lips and let out a puff of air; it was a tricky subject, too tricky and personal to speak about so casually. He knew that, and he was sure Lecter would to. He was observant, irritatingly so, enough that it stung to know that the man was throwing out questions with such abandon. _Picking apart, pulling and swallowing whole_. Will was upset at himself for letting his guard down around the man’s charm; the spite rose in him like a gorge in his throat, coaxing out the bitter and the toxic, “Alright. My father is a travelling salesman. He was barely ever home and, when he was, all him and my mom would do was fight. She’s a school teacher in Mississippi, kindergarten. I’m nothing like either of them and we don’t speak unless it’s on holidays or birthdays. Happy?”

“Should I be?” Hannibal asked.

“Most people are when they get what they want,” Will said tightly, frustration making the easy transfer to anger, “you said we seemed to be in the mood to share. So share.”

“My parents?” Lecter said, brows raised when Will glared in response, “Honestly, I am not entirely certain I remember them clearly enough to offer a description. They both died when I was very young.”

The brakes were applied a little too harshly, too quickly, sending them both forwards with force before jerking back into their seats. Lecter had reached up to brace against the dashboard with his hand. Will stared straight ahead, breath stuck in his throat. Coughing was an easy excuse to cover his mouth, hide his reaction behind the palm of his hand.

“Sorry,” he said softly.

“Quite alright, the traffic is very changeable today.”

“I meant about your parents.”

“Ah, of course. Very kind of you but it is an old wound, well healed. It does not distress me to talk about it.”

“I shouldn’t have...that was unprofessional of me.”

“Therapy is designed to bring out the demons,” Lecter said breezily, “I have had worse, believe me.”

“How did they..?” Will swallowed, trying to ignore the niggling sensation of guilt wriggling down his throat at the aborted question as they began to drive forwards once more, the traffic thinning out.

“They were murdered.”

The admission sat like a monument to their agreement. _No lies._ He was unable to stop himself looking Lecter in the eyes; the man was calm, face a mask of serenity as always. His tranquillity seemed to bring out the indigence Will thought he should feel, “did they catch them?” were the only words he felt able to say.

For a moment Lecter’s eyes narrowed, regarding him with the sort of curiosity that spoke of realisation. Like a man seeing himself in a mirror and understanding how he might look to others.

“They were caught,” Lecter said, nodding.

“Ok. That’s good,” Will said awkwardly, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t be the equivalent of his foot fitting perfectly into his mouth. When he realised where they were he was overjoyed, “hey, I think this is it…oh _fuck’s sake_.”

Part of him would feel guilty later for being glad that, on pulling in to the _Sidecar_ bar and grill, there was a fight in full swing. Right there and then it was an easy reason to grab his badge and run as far from the problem his misplaced anger had made for him as possible.

The closer he ran, the more obvious it became that this wasn’t a fight between gangs, or even a fight between warring packs. Or even a fight at all, really. Fights had to have two participants. This was a one sided shit show. The spray paint on the red brick wall of the diner made that obvious. _DIE FREAKS_. Not very imaginative, but then Will thought that the four skinheads, three currently kicking the living daylights out of something on the ground while the fourth held a gun at the small group of people near the bar’s entrance weren’t probably looking to ignite the imagination with their literary prowess.

“You all just stay right where you are,” the man with the gun was grinning at the people near the bar while the sounds of feet connecting with a warm body, grunts and coughs and jeers, continued behind him.

“Hey!” Will shouted as he marched towards them; the man with the gun was first, then the other three, turning on him like hyenas sensing the lion approaching, “Put it _down_ ,” he said, stopping just short as they grouped together, eyes filled with ready violence. They moved away to reveal a man on the ground, curled in foetal, bloodied and choking.

“Who the fuck are you?” the gunman asked aggressively, cocking his head.

And it was too much, too close. The smell of blood on the air. The easy, slick heat of their thoughts surrounding him like a carousel, spinning and bright, sending up flares. The layer of acceptability he wore like a mask was only skin deep after all. The smile on his face wasn’t pleasant, he knew, and the hand that had been reaching for his badge changed course. The holster was closer and the gun was more thematically appropriate. And at the time it seemed real and real and _real_. It was him, and he was ready. _Not the first time,_ he could hear his own voice saying. _Do you consider yourself a killer_? _Lecter_ _had_ _asked._ Will knew the answer was more complex than he tried to make it out to be.

“Gentleman,” a sudden voice rang out, “this will all have to go in the report.”

That he had forgotten the civilian he’d brought into a crime in progress, Will was sure Jack was going to flay him alive. Right after he did the same to the man currently standing behind him, looking utterly unimpressed in his out of place attire, holding his overcoat up and shaking it before beginning to slide into the silk lined wool.

“What the hell is this?” another of the four idiots spoke up, voice rough with years of cigarettes.

“I did not expect this to be taking place when I arrived,” Lecter said; Will frowned, blinking, unsure what to do. _Another split-second decision that he was sure he’d regret_ , “but the report will have to include all four of you. Most disappointing on a routine inspection.”

“This is horse shit, what the hell is this..!” one of the men spat, advancing.

“Nothing to do with you,” the gunman said suddenly, his eyes seeming to comprehend the situation, lowering his weapon, “and _shut up._ I’m sorry sir, I didn’t, _we_ didn’t mean to step on the Registry’s feet. Right boys?”

“Registry?” one of them repeated, swallowing, “Y-yeah, that’s right.”

“We’ll be going,” the gunman said with a servile nod.

Will watched them leave, some of them still dragging their feet but the gunman kept them in line. They piled into a pick-up truck and backed out roughly, tires squealing along with their vile laughter as they pealed out onto the road. Will committed their licence plate to memory, watching them as they left. The sound of running feet brought his eyes back to the bar, finding several people rushing towards them. Will leaned down to take a look at the injured man on the ground.

“Don’t touch him!” a young man with long dark hair was shouting.

“Back off!” another woman was right behind him.

“Ok, alright,” Will raised his hands and backed away, “look, we’re not here to hassle you.”

“Shut it, Registry pig,” the young man snarled.

“Oh, right, that,” Will said, giving Lecter a stare as he dug out his badge.

“Don’t even think about it,” the woman growled as Will put his hand in his pocket; she watched him like a hawk as he slowly, very slowly, pulled his wallet from his jacket and tossed it to her. When she opened it her eyes were suspicious as they flicked back and forth from the badge to Will.

“Assumptions can be very useful,” Hannibal said, “to the simple minded.”

“We’re not Registry, believe me I’m about as far from it as you can get.”

“Christ, Mill,” the young man with dark hair had bent down to help his injured friend; he had managed to pull up into a sit, showing his broken nose and face as a mess of contusions and bruised blood, “this is bad.”

“If you would permit me,” Lecter said, “I have medical training.”

She watched them both for a tense couple of seconds before chucking Will his badge back; as he caught it she nodded.

“ _Mill_ ,” the young man said appalled, eyeing Lecter.

“Just let him Felix,” she said stoutly; Felix backed off as Lecter hunkered down to help.

“We should get him inside. Do you have any first aid materials?”

“In the office, behind the bar,” she nodded, “Felix, help Jones in.”

Inside the bar there were five more people, all looking ready for trouble but, simultaneously, dreading it. Will was glad. It made their entrance all the easier for it. They laid the injured man, Jones he was sure she’d said, on a couch in the back office. Will wadded up his Jacket and put it under his head while Lecter was lead by Felix to get supplies. When the woman made to follow Will stopped her.

“You’re Milly Grey-Pelt?”

“I’d say who’s asking,” she said, looking at him down her nose, “but then I already know who you are now don’t I, witch.”

“Technically I’m a warlock, if you want to be politically correct,” Will said facetiously, face shifting, falling into a malaise of the contrite “I need to talk to you. About Mike.”

“Mike?” she asked sharply, “You’ve found him? Is he ok?”

Taking a breath, Will shook his head. This wasn't his forte, he wasn't tactful enough. For an instant Will thought of Lecter, the man's calm repose, his seemingly endless ability to be whatever another person wanted or needed of him at that time. As she licked her lips and looked down, hands on her hips, Will tried his best to tap into it, to try on his esssence like a blanket around his shoulders.  
  
“I’m so sorry," he was able to say it with the strength she would need, and not the culpability he felt, "we found him in his trailer.”

“How?” she asked, voice croaky with emotion.

“He was killed,” he didn't mince words because doing so would only cause more hurt; _it was odd to hear himself say it, so soon after Lecter’s confession_. Would she be feeling the same indigence, the same remorse that Will had himself? It can’t be the same, he thought, it isn’t the same. No grief was replicable, not truly

“Oh my god,” she said, walking out into the bar and sitting down; Will took the chair across from her and waited respectfully. Putting her elbows on the table she put her hands over her face and held them there.

 _Sunshine on water, hands on her shoulders as she leaned into him, a small life budding inside her, a moment she would cherish._ Will blinked, looking away. The memory was pure, too personal. He’d had enough of seeing, enough of hearing, enough of other’s broken lives. He itched at his neck and allowed Lecter's influence to keep himself calm.

“I knew something was wrong,” she said as she brought her hands back down flat on the tabletop, “he never stays away this long. Even when we...”

“When you?” Will prompted.

“We had a fight. But he never stays away for longer than a cycle,” her voice broke and she sat back, choking on a smirk, “fuck. This is crazy. You said he was killed? Then why did you let those assholes go! Aren’t they fucking suspects?”

“Milly,” he said, trying to think about how to say it, “Mike wasn’t killed as part of a hate crime. It was...ritualistic.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked quietly, watching him intently with husky blue eyes.

“You’ve seen the newspapers,” he said.

“Oh my, _oh my god_ ,” she breathed out. When one of her pack stood up to approach she lifted a hand, stopping him. He sat down slowly and Milly stared at the table, eyes hard, “they said that you people didn’t know who was doing this.”

“We don’t,” Will admitted, making her glare at him, “that’s why I need to ask for your help.”

“Anything,” she said, surprising him.

“Ok,” Will said, looking up as Hannibal reappeared, his overcoat and suit jacket removed, cuffs rolled up and blood smudged on his shirt sleeve. He was sure the man should look defiled by it, but in a way it came across as innately natural. _Unadulterated._ Taking a breath he tried to focus, looking back to Milly as Felix offered Lecter a drink, “Milly, why wasn’t Mike registered?”

She hesitated, and then, “He didn’t believe in the idea of the pack,” she said, unable to scrape all of the venom from her voice, “he was the lone fucking wolf, always. Couldn’t bring himself to be a Grey-Pelt, even if it meant he couldn’t have me as his.”

“You were together?” Will asked.

“We were bonded,” she said tightly, clasping her hands.

“Were there any kids?”

“How did you..?” she stared at him with eyes that had seen the worst in people for too long, “no there weren’t any kids. Like I said,” she licked at her teeth, “Mike was a loner. He didn’t need anyone, and so no one needed him.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I don’t want your sorrys,” she said, catching his stare and holding it, “I want your assurance. You’re going to get whoever did this.”

“I’m going to try,” he said, standing; as he walked to the bar Will frowned, a light going off in the dark places of his mind. He turned back, “I guess you get a lot of occult in your place, frequent visitors?”

“We’re open to all kinds, I guess,” she shrugged, wiping at her eyes roughly, “look, I’m sorry about the witch thing. I’m just on edge.”

“No worries,” Will said, waving it away, “actually I was wondering if you’d heard anything, about non-registered’s going missing?”

“Uh, no, not me anyway,” she said, “but I can ask around for you. If you think it will help, I’ll do it.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

At the bar, Lecter was speaking with Felix and another young woman with blonde hair cut short and spiky, denim jacket covered in patches. Ease and confidence, two words Will couldn’t associate with himself he could most certainly slap onto Lecter. From calming rampant violence to speaking to strangers of all walks of life to manipulating with ease, the man remained utterly calm throughout. Having tapped into only a tithe of it, wearing it like a suit, _p_ _ulling it apart and swallowing it whole,_ he felt like he might know what it was to have it. Perhaps to keep it, like a memory. But then it wouldn’t be real, it wouldn’t be him. He wanted it to be, wanted to have it be as natural as breathing. Enough that those eyes would look at him again like they had when Will had asked, _‘did they catch them?’._

Recognition. _Being seen._

“We need to go,” Will said, reaching out and touching…

Reaching out and touching. It came so naturally that it was a shock to the system. _Natural but unnatural_. Reaching out and touching the forearm that rested on the bar, the hairs soft beneath his fingers. Lecter looked to him, what appeared to be a scotch in his right hand, and Will couldn’t help but pull his hand away.

“Is the boy ok?” he asked quickly as Lecter opened his mouth.

“It looked worse than it was. They will need to keep an eye on him, but there is no concussion. No internal bleeding, no broken bones. I have been assured he will fully heal on his next moon phase.”

“Just a couple of days,” the young woman said, shrugging, “he’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” Will said grimly, “just a couple of days.”

Until the next.

* * *

  
When Will didn’t take the turn off for down town, Lecter didn’t comment. Will tried to tell himself that he preferred it that way, but in truth he would have loved for nothing more than to know what he was thinking. Their day together had been hardly conventional and yet there had been progress; _information he couldn’t have gained without Lecter’s help_. He could admit that, when he was feeling generous.

There was a growing lack of a need for communication between them, subtle signals. Will liked to call it a professional working relationship. His subconscious liked to call it faith in others. Will liked to tell his subconscious to fuck off.

When they arrived at Quantico Will handled the call to Harry in order to get Lecter another temp pass for the evening. His lucky guess had paid off. Jack had already set up clearance, done all the paperwork, dotted all the i’s. As he handed over his watch and his phone, Will was sure he caught the man smiling at him as he walked through the metal detector.

“Enjoying your peak behind the curtain?” Will asked as Lecter collected his effects.

“It is most educational.”

“They’ll be upstairs in the conference room,” Will ignored the fingers of attachment tickling at his spine while they waited for the elevator, “need the projector. Price will want close ups.”

“Then this seal you have found,” Lecter said as he watched the readout tick down towards their floor, “it is most certainly significant then?”

“Ever have any dealings with occult rituals in your studies?” Will asked.

“Some. I was involved in a research paper regarding the use of the Gnostic circle in the transformation of consciousness.”

“I know,” Will said, stepping into the elevator, "I read it."

Lecter followed him as Will clicked for the third floor. Beyond Price’s arrival, and beyond the advancements in the case, and even beyond what he had gleaned today from the surface of of the victimology, Will hated that he knew nothing. Maybe, just maybe, he told himself, you need support in this one.

"I feel as if I have been taken apart, one journal article at a time," Lecter offered.

"I read fast."

"So it would seem. Then I am being brought in as a consultant?” Lecter looked amused.

“Sorry, didn’t realise I had to pander to your ego to get results,” Will smirked.

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

The smirk turned to a laugh, soft, barely there as he put his hands in his pockets and looked at his shoes. They walked without speaking, through corridors and past people whose thoughts flitted through his mind like butterflies passing, all tumbling wings, up and down, high and low. When they reached the right door Will didn’t bother to knock, just opened the door and ushered Lecter in ahead of him.

“ _..._ _and_ this? I mean what the hell is this doing here?”

As soon as the voice blessed his ears, Will couldn’t help but feel like he was stepping back. A reconstruction of his breakdown. Pasting a smile on it and closing the door behind him was all he was capable of.  
  
The projector was up and running, had been for a while considering it was now hot enough make the fan resound like a jet engine. Around the cramped conference table sat the players, Beverly and Zeller on one side, Jack on the other and Jimmy Price, as usual, up at the front by the screen with his hand against the image. The man was nothing if not tactile. As they joined the fray Will felt Jimmy’s eyes snap to him like a fly on tape.

“Well as I live and breathe, Will Graham!” the man was grinning from ear to ear.  
  
“You’re late,” Jack said, looking up and hesitating on seeing Lecter; it passed in a flash and Jack fell into step with the flawless professionalism, “Doctor Lecter, it’s a pleasure to have you in on this.”

“He’s done work on transformational circles,” Will leaned in behind Jack and explained before standing rigid and taking the hit as Jimmy Price grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a shake.

_Two and a half years sober and still all he could think about was how quick he could reach that numb fix if only he couldn’t disappoint himself, or the kids. The index was meant to be his escape, but the thrill had brought him straight back into the pit._

“It’s really good to see you,” Price said, letting go when Will began to look completely uncomfortable.

“You too Jimmy,” Will said genuinely.

“ _Apologies, I have not introduced myself,”_ Lecter was saying in the background, reaching out to shake Beverly’s hand, then Zeller’s.

“And what a doozy you sent me,” Jimmy had turned to Jack.

“I can’t take credit,” Jack gestured to Will.

“Neither can I,” Will shrugged, “I’m just the bloodhound.”

“But if you don’t know what it is, how did you find it?” Jack asked, eyes narrowed; Will had hoped they’d moved past the man’s suspicion, but it seemed not.

“By accident,” Will lied; he stared at Zeller as the man sat back in his chair and rubbed at his mouth. When Brian caught his stare he blinked before looking to Jack.  
  
“Right,” Zeller said glibly, “it was just luck. Will noticed the nicotine stains on the wallpaper and I noticed that the paper was loose on that wall.”

“So really, _you_ found this,” Jack said to Zeller as he indicated to the projected image.

“Does that matter?” Zeller frowned, though Will caught his panic.

“Jack we’ve been over this...” Will started.

“Perhaps we should consult the expert?” Lecter spoke up, transferring the attention of the room from Will to himself. It was a relief, but also left a sense of obligation tickling in his throat. Will looked away when Lecter caught his eye, staring at the projection as Hannibal offered his hand to Jimmy, “Mr. Price, a pleasure. Your work on the semiotic perspective of human subjectivity was most edifying.”

“Oh, well, always nice to meet a fan,” Price said, chipper as ever.

“If we could get back to the matter at hand,” Jack cut in.

“Right,” Jimmy said, “of course. Where was I?”

“We’ve been having some difficulty with the symbols,” Beverly leaned back in her chair and offered to Will and Lecter. "Apparently this circle can’t exist.”

“I didn’t say _can’t_ exist,” Price said, flapping a hand, “well, ok I did. But I meant shouldn’t. Shouldn’t exist.”

Walking back to the projection Price pointed to the symbols in turn, clockwise, each one wrapped in a complex prison of interlinking lines and symbols which made up the ring itself. In the central area were three more circles, overlapping like a venn diagram.

“Each of these symbols on their own are fine,” he said, “but together like this? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What difference does it make?” Jack asked scholastically, “if each symbol is representative of a meaning, an invocation, then wouldn’t a witch or warlock be able to convene their meanings, their powers? Bring them together to create something new?”

“Only if you think it fair to write a bible in gibberish and expect the angels to understand it,” Will said, shrugging; when Jack looked to him, eyes demanding an explanation, Will gestured to the image, “it’s fucking gibberish is what I’m saying.”

“He’s not wrong,” Price said.

“So you flew all this way to tell us we’re chasing a red herring?” Jack said through gritted teeth.

“Not a red herring,” Price beamed, “it's a semiotic _iconoclasm_.”

Will frowned as the image seemed to change before his eyes as Price spoke. No longer did the image show itself as a confusing mess of symbols and nonsense. Now it was something far more sinister.

“You think they broke it,” Lecter said, tipping his head to the right, eyes focused, “in order to put it back together again?”

“I think that whoever designed this seal isn’t an amateur. Far from it. If you want to play a piano backwards and upside down you first have to be an expert.”

“But what makes you think it isn’t just horse shit?” Zeller frowned, “That’s always an option isn’t it?”

“Because,” Price said, sending Zeller and incredulous look, “it makes sense, if you really look at it. Here,” he pointed to the top of the main, all encompassing circle, to a twirling, looping symbol “this is the Buddhist symbol for enlightenment. And this,” he moved to the next, “is sigma, beta, omega. It means knowledge. And this,” he moved to another on the opposite side, “is the seal of Melchizedek, it’s contextual in meaning but it _often_ relates renewal or rebirth when placed in the seventh sector as it is here.”

“So you can read it then,” Zeller spoke up.

“What I’m trying to say is this thing, this frankenstein _thing_ you have here, reads like a book if every word, from one to the next, was written in a different language, but the author was still trying to make sense of the meaning. It’s working its way through all the major players, gnosticism, buddhism, Christian, the Tora, the Quran, Greek, Hebrew. I just don’t really get why quite yet.”

“Well, how long until you think you might?” Jack asked, agitated.

“Can’t answer that one,” Jimmy said, looking contrite, “wish I could.”

“Great,” Jack said, scrubbing his hand across his mouth, down to fall off the end of his chin; the room seemed to sag and Will couldn’t help but sag along with it. All through his day, feeling the spectre of their ticking time clock looming over him, Price had been a shining light at the end of it all. A _hope_. Now all he’d been left with was more questions.

“There is one thing,” Price spoke up.

“Yeah, what’s that?” Jack asked, sighing.

“Regardless of whether or not I can make sense of it, I can tell you that it was never activated.”

Frowning, Will stared at Price. The room stared along with him. Jimmy remained utterly upbeat in the face of their confusion and irritation, and in truth Will couldn't help but enjoy it. Jimmy was nothing if not a little ball of frustrating energy in their deep, dark well.

“Never activated?” he muttered.

“Nope,” Price chirped.

“It was burned into the god damned wall,” Zeller said with frustrated disbelief.

“That’s just the epigraphical means,” Price rolled his eyes, “not the program that it would follow. You see here? In the centre?” he slapped his hand against a jutting symbol like a child’s arrow with protruding lines and crosses, “it’s Celtic Ogham, a rune for activation. When this seal runs its course then this rune would change,” he strode to the table and pulled a pen out of his pocket, and a receipt from his jeans, scrawling out a rune like a sideways hourglass split with a line, “to this. The rune of containment.”

“But you said yourself that this thing is a mess,” Zeller scoffed, “why’d you think it would conform to anything you know?”

“Because there are rules,” Jimmy said stoutly, “and even though this thing is an abomination of everything I’ve ever studied, the rules still apply, and they’ve followed the rules. Water falls out of the sky, fire burns, wind is just air moving from one place to the next. All symbols have a function, it’s just how it is.”

“But why go to the trouble of putting something so complicated in place,” Beverly asked the question they were all thinking, “if you’re never even going to use it?”

Standing up, Will moved to the front of the room. He could feel their eyes on him as he reached out gently and touched the projected image. _Remembering the pull of the original, tarnishing the wall, calling him forwards to touch, to connect_. He would have to thank Zeller, some day when he could summon the energy, for not letting him follow that path. The energy had been powerful but, even without the vision of the beast in the room, he’d known it was ominous.

“Some spells take only words, some take physical formations to work, like flesh or plant matter or fire or sacrifice, and some,” Will tapped the screen, “take the form of written seals. The more powerful the spell then the more complex the incantation, the more intricate and more detailed the circle. If the people doing these home invasions are targetting halfbreeds, maybe it’s some sort of...insurance? Could it be a seal of restraint?” Will asked as he pointed to the third sector, to a curving rune.

“Might be part of it, but it’s too complex for something so simple,” Price said casually.

“But how?" Jack asked, sitting forwads, "How would you even place something like that without the victim noticing? And how did they get access to the houses?”

“That’s a very good question,” Will muttered distractedly as he mapped the lay of a rune with his index finger, “but an even better one would be how did they incise the seal without someone proficient? It's like Jimmy says Jack,” he turned to the man, catching his eye, feeling his desperation, "if we can't crack this thing then lets go with what we know."

“So we’re looking for a proficient,” Jack patted his hand on the table, agreeing with Will by speaking his words as if they were his own creation, “with easy access to civilian homes, and maybe time alone once they were inside.”

“There is something all of these people have in common, something that connects them,” Will said “Maybe neighbours saw them come and go? Maybe repairmen, amenities workers, salesmen?”

“Katz, get on any work done at those addresses,” Jack issued the order seamlessly, “Zeller, I want you looking through the victim’s paperwork. See if there’s any correlation, same companies, same work done, same offers through the mail, anything. Price, I need you to work with this seal like it’s your own flesh and blood, understand?” he waited for Price to nod before moving his eyes to Will, “and you...”

And it was odd, he knew it was. Waiting, he was waiting for the words to come; the warpath, Jack was on it, like a general leading his troops into battle against the unknown. They were all falling in line, so easily, that there wasn’t time to think of individual needs, individual wants. _The pack was running_. Will knew he was fading, knew that this would be his first step on the helter skelter downwards, and yet the words on Jack’s lips were all he was waiting for.

So when Lecter interrupted, Will felt it like whiplash.

“Apologies, for the interruption,” Lecter said calmly, “but may I have a word with you, Agent Crawford?”

“...This isn’t really the time, Doctor.”

“I am sure you would not benefit from listening to me placate you all evening,” the man said without deference but also without detriment, “may we speak in your office, perhaps?”

For a tense few seconds Jack Crawford looked like he might put up a fight. Though, Will, thought, how anyone could fight against the serene professionalism of Hannibal Lecter he wasn’t sure. The man’s confidence was rapier sharp. Eventually Jack nodded, standing, and walked towards the door without further ado. The room watched them go, only breathing a sigh of relief once the door closed.

“Well what the hell was that all about?” Will asked no one in particular as Zeller pulled himself up out of his chair with a groan and Beverly stretched her arms above her head.

“I think your shrink is gonna regret pissing off Jack,” Zeller muttered as he headed for the door, “only room for one arrogant jackass in this outfit.”

“I don’t know,” Beverly smiled, “I kind of like him.”

“Then you can have him,” Will bit out.

When she leaned against the table, hair falling down past her shoulders, and smiled at him Will wished he didn’t know what she was thinking.

“I don’t think I’m his type,” she said, winking.

“It’s not like that, Jesus,” Will said fussily, “why has it all got to be about sex?”

“Most things are,” she shrugged, leaving as Jack returned; that Will found himself looking for Lecter when the man didn’t return only made him feel like a hypocrite.

Jack didn’t look angry but Will could tell he was holding back when he spoke, “Will, I need you to go home and get some rest.”

“ _What_?” Will said incredulously, “Is that a joke?”

“Since when did I ever have a sense of humour, Graham,” Jack said sternly, “Go home. You’re no use to me burned out.”

“What so everyone else gets to work over-time but I’m too much of a fucking risk? Give me a break, I can work with Price on the seal...”

“Maybe you didn’t _hear_ me,” Jack said sternly, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Or you’re just good at relaying orders,” Will bit out.  
  
“Dr Lecter is an advisor. I’m taking him under advisement. _And_ ,” he added before Will could chime in, “this time I agree with him. I don’t want a repeat of last time, Will. Go home. Get some rest.”

Part of him wanted to argue until there was a fight, but the rest of him could see the point he was making. The last thing he wanted was for any more repetitions from his past. He left without too much of a fuss. Lecter was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

The sun set was wild, golds and reds across the world, a knitting pattern of clouds in the sky, criss-crossed. Will stopped at the top of the hill and looked down the last of the driveway. The lights were on and it spilled out onto the snow like fire. The trees were huddled in around like protectors, looming in at the roof, branches trailing like fingers. The snow seemed to glow and shift, shimmer, sparkle. _His ship on the sea_. Leaning forwards he placed his forehead against the steering wheel, took a long, deep breath and held it. If he listened hard enough, close enough, he thought he could hear the question. _**He**_ _ **ar**_ _ **her**_ _ **voice as if leaning**_ _ **in**_ _ **from the back seat, breath against his neck**_ _ **.**_ _ **Words as vibrations, no conscious understanding, only subconscious acceptance of the meaning.**_

**YOU DON’T DESERVE A LINEAGE. YOU ARE THE TREE WITHOUT BRANCHES.**

“It’s hard to shake off something that’s already under your skin,” he answered, voice soft with anxiety; he let out the handbrake and finished the journey, “you should know that.”

Abigail was asleep on the couch when he entered, the TV still playing in the background, some bubblegum show he didn’t recognise. The dogs were mainly sleepy, arranged around her on the floor, and a couple up at her feet. Buster was the first to wake, stretching and trotting over to greet him. Will hunkered down and rubbed the dog’s fur as the mutt leaned against his leg. It was affirming. Grounding. Something he wanted, but wasn’t sure he should have.

“Hey bud,” he managed a smiled as Buster yawned, “miss me, huh?”

“I fed them.”

Looking up he found Abigail, just her eyes and the top of her head watching him over the back of the couch. Her youth hit him, her innocence blurring into a need to protect. Only he knew it was more than that, it wasn’t fair to lie to himself any more. _Not just a ward of Sanctuary._ She was brave in the face of fear, she was brave in the face of the unknown, she was brave in the face of what she was. She reminded him of what he wanted to be. Her and Lecter both.

“Thanks,” he said, keeping his eyes on the dog, “you get dinner ok?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you’d better get to bed before you end up on that couch all night,” he said, standing, “I don’t recommend it.”

“Ok,” she climbed up from the couch, shedding dogs and waking paws.

In the kitchen there were dishes, but he couldn’t find the energy to wash them. Couldn’t find the energy to eat his share of the mac and cheese he’d left for her in the fridge either. _Wanted a drink, but couldn’t get one now that he’d emptied the emptys,_ _glass bottles in the trash_ _._ He followed her upstairs on hollow feet. _Two more days_. Listened to her giggle as the dogs crowded her in the bathroom while she brushed her teeth. _I’m so sorry,_ he wanted to tell her, _I’m sorry that family isn’t what you wanted even_ _though_ _you need it_.  
  
Wanted to exonerate himself, to be exonerated, _to not have another wandering lost spirit summoned to the circle._

The door creaked as she opened it, peering in. From his seat on the edge of the bed Will looked up, knowing his stare was looking inside, deep, lost.

“You ok?” she asked slowly.

“Yeah,” he nodded, trying to remain detached; it didn’t last. _Liar_. Will sighed, rubbing his palms together, “well, no, not really. Not...up to scrutiny right now.”

“That’s fair,” she shrugged, “just thought you looked...” she hesitated.

“What?”

“Lonely.”

“Lonely doesn’t matter. Lonely can be a friend.”

“I can help,” she said; when he opened his mouth she beat him to it, “you started this, you know.”

The laugh was genuine, and he thought it might have pushed the smile up into his eyes, “Yeah, I guess I did, huh? Thanks, sweetheart. I appreciate it.”

“Good,” she said, biting at her lip.

“You’d better get some sleep,” he said, swallowing down his fears, “if you can’t focus, you won’t learn anything tomorrow.”

She smiled with the quick ease of the youthful, able to bounce back from trauma, from upset, without any need to linger on the lasting harm. Her fingers gripped the door and she gave it a shake.

“ _Thank you,”_ she whispered before rushing out and closing the door behind her.

For him family had always been like an ill fitting suit, disconnected from the form it was trying to emulate. He was all the wrong sizes, but still he searched for the right tailor. He would have called it self harm, if he’d been a little more upset. Instead he called it desperation.

The phone was in his hand before he could overthink why it was a terrible idea. Rings like tolling bells, pealing out over a landscape that tried to ignore the call of the faithful.

“Will, is everything alright?” Lecter answered with a slight bleariness. _Did I wake you?_ He almost asked. Before he could be drawn into the diversion he spoke the truth that was gnawing at him from the inside.

“I lied,” he said succinctly; there was a pause in which Will sniffed and laid back fully on the bed, “to you. Earlier. My father isn’t a travelling salesman. And my mother isn’t a school teacher.”

In his peripheral vision Will thought he might be able to see it. _**She sat in his chair, in the corner by the sewing machine. Guessing she was watching him, because he could not see her face. Hands grasping the chair arms. Judging, hating, wishing**_ **.** She had known, the only other person he’d ever told the truth to about his family, or lack thereof. Her spectre seemed to haunt the declaration of it.

“I feel like the priest behind the confessional,” Lecter said, breaking the tension.

“Are you going to absolve my sins?” Will wished he could join in the joke but it was all too real.

“I feel protective of you, Will.”

“I don’t know if I deserve that. Your honesty burned mine,” Will admitted, clearing his throat, “you stuck to your principles and I’m not used to the courtesy of it. Makes me feel savage, to think I’d stoop low enough to reinvent my own trauma. I…never knew my father,” he managed to say, swallowing, “he passed away before I was born. And my mother died giving birth to me. I have no memories of my father at all, and the only memory I have of my mother is fear and pain. The last feelings of her life were the first of mine and I...don’t want to sully that with a lie.”

This time the silence wasn’t disquieting. There was a thoughtfulness to it, and even as Will wished the man would talk, acquit him, clear away his anger, his fear, his need to keep everyone away, the man’s silence was ataractic, like a sedative.

“Then allow me to extend the same sentiment,” Lecter said sincerely, “I am sorry, Will.”

“...Thanks,” he said softly, turning over onto his side, putting **her** out of his line of vision, “I mean it.”

And then things weren’t quite so damning, or awkward, or _itchy_. It all seemed to come together, to coalesce into a truth. One which needed telling.

“I want to give you something.”

“I am always open to gifts,” Lecter said.

“I’m not used to being exposed. When you already know the thoughts of everyone else in the room, you live with endless ammunition in your pocket. The world becomes easy to read, enough that you begin to hate reading. Sometimes you wish your eyes were blind and your ears were deaf.”

And at the other end of the phone was the expectant quiet of listening. He thought he could see that serene face, never showing stress or anger or worry. Lecter had appeared aloof on their first meeting, as if he were looking down at the world from on high; but he had shown interest in him. _What’s so special about you Will Graham?_ And that condescension had shown itself to be less snobbery and more a calm confidence that created a halcyon sense of conviction, like a man who was living through a dream.

“I told you that it isn’t the same with you, and I meant that,” Will said, hating that such candour made him jittery.

“How so?” Lecter asked cautiously.

“You make me feel...vulnerable.”

“Because I ask you to reveal yourself?”

“Because you don’t make any sense,” Will rebutted, “I can’t see you, your thoughts are closed off, your skin is soft and real but there’s _nothing_ when I touch you,” he bit his tongue and wished he could be less fractious and ostentatiously weird, “I can’t see you, Dr. Lecter and I don’t know what that means.”

“And yet you trust me,” the man said, making Will pause, “and that is the gift one cherishes the most.”

Sometimes, when he wasn’t watching, Will thought he might harbour the ability to be surprised. Not a cheap scare, not a sudden action of his nerves. A genuine feeling. He remembered Milly Grey-Pelt, her eyes that saw only the worst. His eyes had recognised her eyes. Her mouth had spoken his truth.

_He didn’t need anyone, and so no one needed him._

“Well, this conversation just became worrying.”

“Do I worry you?”

“Only when I can’t see you.”

“Mr. Graham, I do believe you are making advances.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Will couldn’t help but try and laugh it off even as he felt the heat of a flush at his neck, his face, eyes closing, “I wouldn’t even know where to begin flirting with a colleague.”

“Well, I am not much of an authority on the subject myself.”

“Maybe we should just stay professional,” Will said, trying to sound like this was something he was used to, and not something that made his insides shift around uncomfortably.  
  
“Maybe.”

“I should...get some sleep.”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry if I woke you, before,” Will said awkwardly.  
  
“May I say I am glad that you did?”

“You can say whatever you want.”

“Then I will say goodnight.”

“Right,” Will licked his lips and tried to comprehend just how he’d ended up in this situation; he didn’t get very far, “goodnight Dr. Lecter.”

“Mr. Graham.”

The phone found itself unceremoniously disconnected and dropped against the duvet. Lying on his back, Will Graham brought both of his hands to his face and let out a muffled sound of frustration. Just like before, Will wished history didn’t have a nasty habit of repeating itself. Or that he could be prescient enough to avoid it.

“You fucking stupid, fucking weirdo, fucking repressed, idiot _moron_ ,” he groaned, “why do you keep falling for shrinks?”


	6. Kestrel

The door opened of its own volition, swinging on unseen hinges. As it floated closed Will felt like the room might be tipping, _back and forth, back and forth,_ _a ship on the sea_ _._ He didn’t rise so much as fall-to-standing. The air was warm, hot as a sauna. It prickled his skin with sweat. The door opened like a mouth and sound poured forth, drowning him.

_The dogs were barking, beyond the salient door, back and forth, back and forth, the sound cutting in and out._

He swam through, forcing himself against the pull. The very room seemed to watch him, as if he were a sport. Gripping him with its intent, holding him close, refusing to let him go.

 _The barking was squealing was screaming. Every time the door swung closed the room was enveloped with a silence worse than the sound itself, complete and terrifying. It shook his heart, made his limbs ache to move faster_.

But the faster he moved, the slower the world became. As the door swung open a note of fear became suspended in the air, the call of a bird of prey high in the clouds, echoing. Swinging closed, _silence,_ swinging open, _piercing._

_Abigail! It called. Abigail! The suspended cry became even more permanent, a wail now, a cry, an infant._

The door began to swing faster, faster, _slam creak, slam creak,_ as he moved slower, slower. Trying to call out through vocal chords that would not vibrate, strangled to silence, the air thicker and thicker and _thicker_ , but his hands co close now, so close, dear _god_...

_The door swung wide, gaping, a maw filled with cruel teeth. His eyes widened, his mouth stuck frozen, perpetual, as his world rushed, as if the glue had come unstuck. He was running now, towards the baby’s cry, horrified, stricken.  
  
“Will? Will!”_

The touch of skin brought him back with the shock of a rebirth. One blink alone separated the nightmare from the reality, but the sudden shift was horrifying to his system, as if he were being torn out from one and stuffed into the other. Tile beneath his feet, his arm outstretched to the nothingness before him, the black sky above, the dogs barking and leaping in circles. Will sucked in a short breath and felt his deadened nerves sear back into life.  
  
He was on the roof of his porch, stuck still as if still ready to run from the edge, and behind him Abigail. She had let go of his wrist and was now gripping his long sleeved nightshirt, her eyes amazed, bleary with interrupted sleep.

“Get in. Get _in_ right now!” she was saying breathlessly.

“It’s ok,” he wasn’t sure who he was trying to reassure as he turned and carefully clambered back in through the window, “it’s ok.”

“ _Ok_?” she said incredulously, hugging herself as Will set foot back in his room, dogs swirling and yapping at his legs, “Are you crazy!?”

“Just sleepwalking,” Will rubbed at his forehead and tried to calm his racing heart, “hasn’t happened in a long time.”  
  
“I heard you screaming my name. Jesus, you could have fucking died!”

“It’s not that high,” Will tried to waive her concern, unsure how successful he was, “and watch your language.”

“Coming from you? That’s rich,” she muttered, sullen.

“I’m not the one who wants to apprentice with the man she’s looking at like she thinks he might be crazy,” Will said flatly, “what time is it?”

“I don’t know,” she threw her hands up in the air, looking around until she saw his bedside alarm clock, “is it really half four in the morning?” she groaned.

“That’s good,” he breathed in deep, closing his eyes, even as the lack of sleep caught up with him, making his mind sag beneath the weight of it, “I would have been waking you in half an hour anyway,” he opened his eyes to look at her, still sullen in the gloom, “I’ll put the water on, then you need to take a bath.”

“Why?”

“No more questions,” he said harshly, making her start.

“But..!”

“No more _questions_ ,” he said each word as if it were a curse, spitting from his tongue, “don’t you get it? This isn’t some sorority pledge. It’s not a fucking book club. If you want this to work, you will do as I say.”

No room for sentimentality, as she stormed from the room, eyes closed, mouth hard. No room for attachment in the rites. She made her choice, Will tried to convince himself. It didn’t fully sing with the truth. _You let her make her own idea about what this would be, because you are what she accused you_.

“I’m not lonely,” he murmured to himself as she slammed her door, “I don’t have the right to be.”

* * *

  
Dawn. The insipid light seeped in through the cracks in the curtains while the bathwater ran. Sitting on the floor, his arm over the edge as he ran it lazily through the water, Will wondered if she would be able to pass the first test. If she doesn’t, are you going to send her back to her father? he asked himself. Would you abandon her? A long breath in, eyes closed, and a long breath out, eyes open. He knew, deep down, that would never be a viable option. The tumble and burble of running water hummed alongside the swish as he ran his hand through; _just below body temperature, but not cold enough to slow the senses. A perfect mix._ He knew he could adjust the temperature if necessary.

“Are you sure you want to do this again?” he spoke softly to himself, swallowing, “Calm down, it’s ok, just calm down.”

This had all seemed so simple the night before. Giving in to her whim, giving in to her because she had seen in him what he could not name, or perhaps could not admit to. Her belief that he was good, that he was true and that he could save her. Somehow she had made him believe it too.

“You dressed?” he asked through her door, knocking, “Abigail?”

“I’m not ready.”

From under her doorway light spilled out into the dark corridor. His fingers twitched against the varnished wood, unsure. Licking his lips he opened his mouth and tried to think of the right thing to say. _Scared, upset, estranged to the point of hatred._ Her feelings radiated through like the light under the door, _bright in the dark._ It was odd. He wasn’t used to thinking of others. Normally something he avoided at all costs. Being forced to was unsettling. He knocked again.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said uncomfortably, “it’s not important to, well, it’s not necessary. You can just be...”

The click of the latch cut him off, the creak of the door; he backed away as if on instinct. Her eye appeared in the slit, watching him frankly.

“What?” she said, face grim from what he could see of it, “Just pretend? Just spend my life pretending I’m not what I might be?”

“Potential isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Will said seriously; she hesitated long enough for him to continue, “this won’t be easy, and it won’t be pleasant. Most are born into their covens, raised from birth. Children have no impurities to purge.”

“What, cause I’m not a baby I’m soiled somehow?” she asked sarcastically, door opening wider as she leaned against the wall.

“If you want to simplify it, yes,” he said, “you will need to be...reborn through the rite.”

“Is it dangerous?” she asked boldly.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he said, voice strong, unwavering.

“What’s going to happen?”

“I...can’t tell you,” he said slowly, “you have to come to this with eyes unseeing.”

“Blind huh?” she said, her anxiety ratcheting up.

“Faithful,” he corrected as she opened the door fully, standing there in a pair of his shorts and t-shirt.

“If I don’t do this, I’ll never be free of my parents,” she said, a note of pleading in her anger, “I need this. I don’t have a choice.”

“Everyone has a choice,” Will said resolutely.

Never a good way to come to it, Will thought. Desperation. No other way out. This would be tricky, it would make it tricky. Will didn’t like loose ends and spanners in the works. Not when it was his hands that could be caught in the loom, his soul left shredded with regret.

“Take a minute to think about it. Understand the meaning of the word trial. This is a test of endurance as much as it is of faith.”

“Do I need to do it?” she asked, knowing the answer she would get before she even asked, “Can’t we just...not?”

“Ok look, I might not be the best example of the sacred and true-hearted Practitioner, living removed from transgression and only using my magic for good, but even I won’t poison the tree. We never allow the magic to be corrupted. It is sacred. It is pure. It is beyond either of us to question. Now,” he moved backwards, stepping to the bathroom, “take your time. Ok? Take your time and make a decision. You’ll know if it’s right or if it isn’t. Just...trust yourself.”

Back in the bathroom he closed the door and looked down at the two circles he had drawn, picking up the chalk and delineating some of the lines harder, sharper. They overlapped, and in the centre he had drawn The Eye. It watched him as it watched everything, _detached, all seeing_. He cocked his head, thinking he could hear a stir from down the hall. _Nothing_. Will decided to sit, taking his place on the circle furthest from the bath. _Split-second decision, eh? You and your fucking need to save everyone you meet, you stupid hypocrite._ A creak, hesitant but making a choice nonetheless. He lit a candle and sent the dim bathroom flickering, a panoply of penumbra. Footsteps, then feelings filtering through, _doubt, fear, persistence, need_.

She did not knock, and he was glad for it. Showed her intent, showed that she had decided even if she did not know it yet. She flared as a silhouette against the brightness before closing the door behind her. He gestured for her to sit in the second circle, and she did so without question.

“Good,” he said as she crossed her legs and tried her best not to smudge the chalk.  
  
“I have one question I need you to answer before we do...whatever this is,” she said, eyes focused on him intently.

He sighed but nodded, “What?”

“Have you done this before?”

“Once,” he said easily.

“Did it work?”

“You said you had one question,” Will said, feeling her tension rise when she didn’t get the answer she needed; Will ignored it as he pulled on a pair of soft, black gloves, “now give me your hands.”

She did as she was told, holding them out before her. He took them one at a time, inspecting her palms, the lines crossing each, the pads of her fingertips, the length between the proximal, the middle and the distal. He could see her out the corner of his eye, looking unimpressed. _The idea of a palm reading being a trial_. Will wished she wouldn’t be so flippant. He took a steadying breath before removing his gloves, putting them to one side.

“I need you to focus in on yourself,” he said without explanation, “Don’t question the outer influence of the room, of me, of the draught under the door, of the light behind the curtains, the noise of the birds, the feel of the dark, the tickle of the chill on your skin. I just need you to focus inwards, think only of that. Can you do that for me?”

She nodded quickly, though he knew she was confused. There was an elation to it, though, an excitement. Will hoped that would last. The Eye looked up at them both.

“Have you ever told a lie?” he asked; she frowned, looking at him as if she were about to ask a question, “ _Answer_ me.”

“Yes,” she said, as if surprising herself with her own words.

“Do you love your parents?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly.

“Do you hate the Registry?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a virgin?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she said, looking embarrassed.

“Ok,” he shook his hands, then set about wiping his palms across the backs of his hands, “You can be truthful. That’s good.”

“You didn’t need to ask me that,” she said, radiating _uncomfortable, hurt_.

“Quiet,” he said as gently as he could, placing his left hand behind his back, “both hands, palms up.”

She looked confused when he dropped a curled, dead flower into her right palm, “all I need you to do, Abigail, is be truthful. Allow your truth to be every part of you. Allow that to be your focus in further, that focus in on yourself, you will know that all you see is the truth. Are you ready?”

The nod was all he needed. It was important not to shake, he thought as he hovered his right palm over her left, _almost touching, not quite, not enough to cause a rupture_.

“Focus,” he said as he felt a small heat radiate between their palms, “ _concentrate_.”

“I am,” she said sourly.

“ _More_ ,” he ordered, feeling the intensity grow, “focus in, inwards, right down to the places you don’t like to look,” the feeling grew and grew, making Abigail look to their palms in shock, “I said concentrate! All of the things you hate about yourself, that you won’t let yourself see, the moulding corners, the crumbling walls around your hate, your inadequacy, the self loathing, I want you to accept it. All of it.”

And there, in the moment of her doubt, in the moment of her anger and her desperation, she did. He knew, because the flower in her right hand began to uncurl its dried petals, the wrinkles bulging out as the stem firmed, the colour returning, the smell profuse.

“Oh wow,” she breathed, smiling even as waiting tears blinked from her eyes, “that’s amazing! _Y_ _ou’re_ amazing!”

“It wasn’t me, not really, we’re just conduits,” Will breathed, removing his hand and gesturing to the flower, “look at it if you want.”

“What do you mean you didn’t?” she said as she turned the carnation around and around, rubbing the soft petals between her thumb and finger.  
  
“What did I say about questions?”

“Sorry,” she said, giving him the flower, looking contrite; they always did, Will thought, once they had seen the proof of the pudding. It only made it worse, their submission to the wonder of it.

“It means that crazy woman at the market was right,” Will relented, only a little, “you’re proficient,” she let out a chuff of breath, her smile widening, “I wouldn’t put you through this if we couldn’t be sure,” her smile wavered, a frown creeping in, “stand up.”

They stood together. Will refused to let it get to him. Her trust would be as the one he had initiated before; _it_ _would stand up to the test or it wouldn’t_ . She needed to trust him, he knew that. He hoped that she did. By now he was sure that she must. The way she had arrived to him should have strengthened it. _A bond, budding._ He was all she had left to rely on.

He helped her climb into the bath. She hissed, ‘ _it’s cold_ _’_ but he ignored her complaints.

“Sit up,” he told her, and she did as told, knees up, arms wrapped around her legs; Will cupped his hands together and scooped the water high, letting it run down over her head.  
  
She gasped but stayed put, blinking as the water caught in her lashes. Her skin was prickled with goose flesh, already pale it looked deathly so as the faint light from the candle set the pallor against the pitch.  
  
“Solutio,” he murmured, dousing her again and again.  
  
Taking his time, Will put on his thin gloves, the water soaking them. When he dipped them into a bowl by his side, filled with dirt from the garden, the soft soil clung to his hands, mixing to a mud. He reached out and put his hands against her upper arms, gripping her tightly as he streaked the earth across her like an impressionist painting.  
  
“Coagulatio,” he said softly as he pulled the dirt through her hair.  
  
The candle flickered as he picked it up, setting the room on edge, scintillating into millions of hidden little dimensions, striking and ephemeral. She took it without question when handed to her, folding her legs down. It shook, betraying her nerves. Even as he curled a lock of her hair around his fingers and pulled it tight as the scissors sheared through, she stayed silent.  
  
“Calcinatio,” Will recited the word precisely as he let the curling strands into the flame, glowing orange as they singed, curling like fiddleheads, bright as fox tails. The smell was offensive as they watched her hair burn until all that was left were broken pieces falling to the water’s surface.  
  
She stood when he bade her and helped her step out, dripping and chill. Led her to the The Eye, let her stand above it like a supplicant ready to kneel.  
  
It was difficult not to feel the unpleasantness, as he took hold of the hem of her water heavy t-shirt and lifted it up quickly, forcing her arms up. Will kept his eyes to the side but he could feel her shame as she covered her breasts with her hands. When he hooked the fingers of his gloves into her shorts she made to back away, forcing his stare. _Too innocent,_ Will thought guiltily, _too innocent to have to go through with this_. His eyes did not leave hers, his penance as her feelings coursed through him. When she nodded, Will carried on. The material stuck to her legs, jerking against her knees. When they reached the ground she stepped out and Will put the sodden clothes aside.  
  
She was as Venus emerging from the ocean. Will wished she could have had the life she wanted, _happy somewhere with people who loved her._ Maybe you can give that to her, he thought. But the feeling was tainted, misshapen. He lifted his right hand as a fist with his index finger extended, circling it round. She understood but looked uncertain, eventually spinning on the spot until her back was to him. Reaching around her he took her hands from their duty, protecting her virtue, and lifted them up, out, until she stood like a crucifixion to her past, an offering to her future.  
  
“Sublimatio,” he said as the dawn light began to filter in through the cracks in the blinds.  
  
Letting go of her didn’t seem to register at first. She stood as she was until he placed the bath robe over her shoulders, as if she had come out of a trance. The ratty white robe was pulled around quickly, covering her gladly from his eyes. When she turned to him he was stripping his gloves, grimacing at the mess of mud and water streaking the fabric.  
  
“Well?” she asked expectantly.  
  
“Well,” he sighed, “that’s the first part. Went well I think. You did well I mean.”

“Wait, first part? What do you mean _first_?” she said with the sharp anger of someone scammed.  
  
“These things come in threes,” Will said, shrugging, “you’ll find that out once this is all over. The trinity has been around for far longer than the Christian faith. This is the first leg of the journey.”  
  
“Well what the heck else is there? What’s next?” she demanded.  
  
“The first is offering, cleansing. The second is...faith, acceptance. No one knows what the second trial will be. It could be anything.”  
  
“So I’m going to be, what? Asked to walk over hot coals?” she scoffed, looking at him like he was the shyster everyone always assumed of those who Practiced, “Take a leap of faith off of a cliff? Maybe you’re just a perv who likes feeling up young girls.”  
  
“For crying out loud,” Will shook his head, smiling incredulously, “don’t be so full of yourself, sweetheart. Or so demeaning of me.”  
  
“Well,” she huffed, looking at her nails, “how would I know? I don’t know you. You won’t even say what’s going to happen to me.”  
  
“Like I said,” Will reiterated strongly, making her roll her eyes, “it can be literally anything. Don’t you understand Abigail? I didn’t start this,” her displeasure began to shift to worry as he continued, “the trial began the moment you left your parents house to seek me out. It’s impossible to stop it now. You made your choice. You have been heard. Now, have a shower. I’m going to make breakfast. Then I have to go to work.”

* * *

  
He had expected it to take longer. For an odd little period of time he wondered if he might never see her again, _out the window, run to the road, flag down a car, escape the frying pan into fire situation she had found herself in._ When he heard her footsteps on the stairs he glanced at the wall clock. _Seven forty eight_ . The oven hummed merrily, breathing out sweet, warm air as he opened it and fed in three new pancakes onto the warm plate. It complimented the meaty aroma of the sausages in the other pan. For a worrying moment, as Abigail stood staring at him from the doorway, wrapped in the heavy blanket from the cot bed he’d made up for her days ago, Will realised he didn’t know what to say.  
  
“Not a vegetarian, are you?” he asked as he turned the sausages over.  
  
“No,” she said, surly, “I’m not a vegetarian. I’m not normal. I’m not a whore. I’m not a liar.”  
  
“Abigail, please,” Will sighed.  
  
“What, I thought we were supposed to be truthful?” she said facetiously.  
  
“I know you have questions. The important part is understanding that not everyone has the answers.”  
  
“Sounds like a cop-out to me.”  
  
“And that’s ok,” he said as he walked to a cupboard, fetching plates; he made her up a stack of pancakes and four sausages, plonking a jug of maple syrup, a bottle of ketchup and a glass of orange juice next to her, “this is a transitional phase. You’re leaving one life, and entering another. Answers will come, we just need to figure out what the questions are.”  
  
“Oh, I’m allowed to have them now am I?” she asked dourly.  
  
“Rites are prescriptive,” he explained, making himself an identical plate, “maybe you’ll perform one some day, and you’ll need to know the laws that govern everything.”  
  
“I hate you,” she said as she jammed her fork into a sausage and bit the end off, chewing, “ I hate you and I hate my parents and I _hate_ your stupid religious dogma.”  
  
“That doesn’t matter,” Will tried to believe it as he doused his pancakes in syrup, “you’ll know that soon enough. I’m your Elder. We’re not made to be liked. I’m an advisor. I’ll teach you everything you need to know, understand that. I’m not here to be liked by you, I’m here to make you into what you can be,” she was watching him from beneath her half-dried straggly hair as if she thought she could maybe she could leave with no regrets, “put some syrup on your pancakes. It’s good for the shock.”  
  
“I don’t like it.”  
  
“Everyone likes maple syrup,” Will said, brow raised, smiling.  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
“Ok,” Will nodded, wiping his hands on a piece of kitchen towel, “how about honey?”  
  
When she nodded Will tried to tell himself that he knew she wouldn’t leave. His intuition never steered him wrong, _except when it came to friendship, to family, to love_ . As she slathered the honey on her pancakes and devoured them one by one, Will breathed in the scent of attachment and let it sink down into his lungs. He knew it was wrong, always was, but it had never stopped him. Only burned him, charred itself into his flesh, as an indelible testament to his foolishness.

* * *

  
The road was blessedly free of traffic. As he looked to the other side of the highway, at the traffic jam forming, he was glad that at least he wasn’t headed that way today. He called the familiar number and put it on speaker phone.  
  
“Crawford,” Jack answered succinctly.  
  
“Any luck with the search?” Will asked as he turned out onto the off ramp.  
  
“Jimmy has most of it down, but I don’t think that’s going to help. He brought in some of his research team this morning. They’ve been working since seven.”  
  
“What do you mean not going to help?” Will asked, frowning; the anxiety of the date was nipping at him, biting at his calm. _One more day until the parade of corpses continued._ The wait.  
  
“I mean that no matter how much they try and figure it out, it’s not going to help us know where the next one will be. We still don’t have enough of an idea of victimology, it’s too random.”  
  
“We have to put out a warning,” Will said, hating the sigh he was given in return, “come on Jack. If you’re going to admit we’re deaf and blind, the least we can do is not be dumb. The _least_ we can do is warn the poor fuckers.”  
  
“Registry will never agree to an announcement,” Jack said, placating.  
  
Will sneered and let out a sound of disgust, “And what has the safety of unnaturals got to do with them, huh? I thought law enforcement was supposed to be for the people?”  
  
“If we out these murders as being coordinated purely at halfbreeds, you _know_ the chaos that will set in motion. It’ll stoke the fires. Bad enough that violence rates and vigilantism are up.”  
  
“Piss off,” Will said facetiously, “like you give a shit if an unnatural gets zipped open and emptied out like a kid’s pencil case.”  
  
“It’s just a prediction, Will, you’re prediction. It's not set in stone, we don’t even know if it will happen!”  
  
“Oh come on!”  
  
At the other end came a string of muttering he couldn’t understand, and then when Jack decided to be legible it was enraging, “It’s the one ace we have, I’m not playing it.”  
  
“Fuck you Jack, this isn’t poker! Someone in this city is going to die tomorrow,” Will bit out; when he didn’t receive a reply Will took a deep breath, trying to rationalise his thinking. Getting angry isn’t going to help, he tried to tell himself, but it really makes me feel fucking better.  
_  
He_ _tried to think of_ _Abigail, her clever eyes intent on_ _her future_ _, the hate and the resentment being slowly but surely overwritten by awe and belief in herself._ _Her ability to move through the reeds in the bog and find her way to dry land, even in the light of renewal and trauma._ It helped him centre himself, even if the ire remained, “I’m going out to the Klingerts.”  
  
“You mean Eve Klingert? _No,_ absolutely not!”  
  
“I need to know if the murders from before have the seal, Jack. When I worked with Lass we didn’t even know the seals existed.”  
  
“What good is that going to do us?” Jack asked, demeaning, “Get you and, by association, _me_ onto the local cop shit list? If any one of them puts in a complaint I’m going to have shit spewed all over me, from multiple directions at once, and I want to go on record as saying I would be blaming _you_ for it one hundred percent!”  
  
“We need to know if it’s the same people Jack, really the same, be goddamn sure,” Will explained testily, clicking on the indicator and waiting at the crossing, “if the people that perpetrated the murders from the last case, christ, why are you even asking? It’s not rocket science! If they’re the same then we can maybe narrow down the search, see if there are any correlations, predict _something_. Make an assessment! Juggle some ideas! Shit on a fucking stick Jack I can’t just sit by and watch this happen! I need to _do_ something!”  
  
As he shook his steering wheel a slick, silver BMW cut him off. Will slammed on the brakes, rolled down his window and shouted, _“_ _Learn how to drive you_ _over-privileged, shit-for-brains cunt!”_ before returning calmly to his call.  
  
“I’m going to the Klingerts, and then I am going to the Lewis house, and I will carry on from there until I am done,” he said clearly, “just like we all will be if the Inspector General’s office ever gets wind of how royally you are fucking this investigation right up its tight ass.”  
  
And then he hung up, because he really didn’t want to deal with the shit storm he had just created in a moment of utter, blissful recklessness. Biting at the inside of his mouth as the road rolled along beneath his tires, Will cycled through to Katz’s name. It took two goes to get her, which made Will give up on her help before he’d tried.  
  
“Jack told you already huh?”  
  
“Hi Will,” she greeted him civilly, making him tut.  
  
“I was going to ask you to come out to the previous sites, but I’m guessing I’ve been vetoed.”  
  
“Jack needs me here, I’m working the make-up of your seal. We took a sample from a couple of the sites.”  
  
“Any good news?” Will asked, hoping.  
  
“Not really. Just the usual. Sulphur, traces of iron, ammonia, phosphorus. I think they burned it into the plaster layer like lighting a fuse, somehow, but containing it from causing further damage to the surroundings.”  
  
“What about Zeller? Any correlation between the victims regarding work done in their home, visitors?”  
  
“Zippo. They weren’t even in the ballpark of each other so local leaflets were different. Only thing they had through their letter boxes that we know of that were the same were mass marketing from big brands like mobile phone or cable providers. And from their bank records we know none of them took any of the offers. A couple of them had work done, but one was a boiler replacement and the other was an infestation of cockroaches. They called an exterminator. We’re tracking down the workmen who went on site now.”  
  
“Yeah, ok,” Will knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere, “sounds good.”  
  
“You don’t.”  
  
“I’m aware.”  
  
“Jack told me, about your previous site visit plan. Thought they were off limits?”  
  
“They are,” Will said tightly.  
  
“Well, aren’t you going to have to talk your way in then?” she didn’t seem to be able to keep the patronising from her tone.  
  
“Think I’m going to make this worse before it gets better?” Will asked acidly.  
  
“I think you should maybe ask your new friend to tag along,” she suggested casually, “he has a nice, neutral vibe to him.”  
  
“Calling me a caustic bastard?” Will asked bluntly.  
  
“You complement each other,” she replied diplomatically, “and you sound like you need someone with you right now.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe,” Will drummed on his steering wheel and sighed, “I have to go.”  
  
“Me too,” she said before hanging up.  
  
Part of him wished she hadn’t brought it up. Now all he could think about was the man he was trying his best to ignore. Only he couldn’t ignore the truth in Beverly’s words. If this was going to work then he needed someone to slick his way in. This time he felt better that he was answered after three rings. He wouldn’t have put it past Jack to call Lecter as a proviso to Will’s own blow up.  
  
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” came the smooth voice over the speaker; it seemed to fill the cab.  
  
“Hey,” Will blanked, “uh, no pleasure today I’m afraid. Where are you?”  
  
A moment’s hesitation, then, “I am at my office.”  
  
“Good. I’m coming to pick you up. I need your help.”  
  
“I am not exactly available at the moment,” Lecter said, conciliatory, “I have a client this morning, and then another...”  
  
“Then reschedule,” Will interrupted agitatedly, realising he was being exactly what Beverly had described and tagging on, “please. There isn’t any time, we’re running on a scrappy fucking hour glass here. I really need you with me on this.”  
  
“I am very sorry, Will,” Lecter said, voice marginally tighter, “but I cannot drop my patient’s interest for a sojourn to...”  
  
“Oh, well what use are you!” Will shouted angrily before hanging up.

* * *

  
“Well, he sounds delightful.”  
  
Hannibal couldn’t help but feel the twitch at his upper lip as he replaced the receiver and turned in his chair, the leather creaking softly. Behind him Bedelia Du Maurier was flipping through an issue of some trite magazine one of his clients had left in his waiting room, her high heels clicking against the wood.  
  
“I do wish you wouldn’t eavesdrop, Bedelia,” he said airily, “it is most uncouth.”  
  
“Well, since you won’t tell me about him I have to listen in whenever I get the chance,” she said, flicking to another page and circling around his desk to sit languidly in his favourite chair; Hannibal stayed quiet, contemplative, “aren’t you going to call him back?” she asked.  
  
“No need,” Hannibal said, cocking his head.  
  
“You don’t even have any clients today,” she said smugly, “playing hard to get?”  
  
“Some first class psychoanalyses you picked up in your latest issue?” Lecter taunted.  
  
She watched him critically, then shook her head and looked away. He had to admit the more she acted self-assured, the more he enjoyed the farce. When the shrill ring of the phone echoed in his office Lecter couldn’t help but look to her with an air of victory. She seemed to be stoutly ignoring him, but he knew her too well to believe it.  
  
“Back so soon?” he answered the phone stiffly, goading.  
  
“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” Will’s voice was taught, like a hangman’s noose, “Fucking said I was sick fed up of apologising, but you have me at it again. I didn’t mean to take this out on you, but you’re making it very difficult not to.”  
  
“Oh?” Lecter couldn’t help but smile that Will’s apology had dissolved almost immediately into an insult.  
  
“You’re very unlikeable when you’re bureaucratic.”  
  
“And you are most unlikeable when you are being your own patsy. I’d rather you were angry than servile.”  
  
“Go fuck yourself,” Will said without venom, “happy?”  
  
“Marginally,” Hannibal replied, looking unimpressed.  
  
“Then don’t ask for what you think you want. I am sorry, you’re just going to have to deal with that. I take my anger out on people I like when I’m particularly pissed off.”  
  
“Then I will take it as a compliment?” Lecter said, enjoying the shift and pull of the man’s taciturnity.  
  
“You should,” a pause, and then, “don’t make me beg you for this. I’m running out of charm.”

“I’m beginning to think that might be impossible,” Lecter said, ignoring Bedelia rolling her eyes, “I can reschedule my clients.”  
  
“You can?” Will sounded surprised, clearing his throat.  
  
“I can. Should I expect you shortly?”  
  
“I’ll be there...fifteen minutes or so.”  
  
“Until then,” Lecter replaced the receiver and steepled his fingers.  
  
The air in the room seemed to vibrate with the anticipation of another meeting. The particles of his deepest, smallest existence were resonating as they had done that first moment in Jack Crawford’s stuffy little office. The teacup had come back together, reformed, transmuted; now something he would never have imagined. The physical and the ephemeral worlds colliding, wings of chance beating a hurricane of the future.  
  
“You are so screwed,” her taunt brought him from his reverie; he watched her laugh demurely with hard eyes, “if he ever finds out what you...”  
  
“But he will not,” Lecter interrupted, standing in order to walk to the chair; standing by her knees he placed a hand gently against the back of the chair, by her neck, “and if he does I’ll know who to blame, won’t I darling?”  
  
He knew she was trembling, could feel it through the leather, see it in the waver of her magazine. She put it down on the side table and stared at him defiantly.  
  
“I suppose you want me to go before he gets here?”  
  
“That would be best,” Hannibal agreed.  
  
“God, this is as bad as when you started inviting Chilton to dinner,” she scoffed to show bravado, standing up and running her hand through her well coiffed hair, “you know he hasn’t stopped gushing to me about it for weeks?”  
  
“I didn’t realise you two were so close,” Hannibal said observantly.  
  
“Wouldn’t call it close. I would call you though,” she said, purposefully dropping her magazine on his desk as she walked past, making him sigh shortly, “close.”  
  
“Will is my friend,” he said succinctly.  
  
“And here I thought he’d just fall into the black hole with the rest of us,” she slid into a heavy woollen coat and purposefully kept her back to him; Hannibal appreciated the bravery of the act, “the light of friendship bends around you Hannibal, never quite reaching the core.”  
  
“Enjoying your time stuck on the event horizon, are we?” he asked, smiling.  
  
“I’m your psychiatrist Hannibal,” she said languidly, with a hint of aspic, “you are not mine.”  
  
He walked her to the door, much as he had for the duration of their acquaintance. _Always walking her to the door, but allowing her to open it herself_. No use in the study if the players knew they were in a play, after all. This time, she was half way _exit stage left_ when she turned back for one more round of applause.  
  
“You won’t reconsider, will you,” she said suddenly; he couldn’t quite tell from her eyes: disappointed or afraid? Upset perhaps? He wasn’t sure if he cared in the end.  
  
“I don’t believe I can,” he said, “considering I never considered in the first place.”  
  
Watching her leave, a green snake in the grass. Camouflaged by simplicity, unmasked by savagery. He still stood by his choice in her. Even if he detested the very fibres of her being he could not truly blame her, not any more. She was an animal of survival. After so long alone she had been the engine that drove him forwards, forwards, always forwards. He would always have to give her that.  
  
Watching from the window as her car pulled out, Hannibal wondered how the world would have looked without her in it. As Will Graham’s offensively Yankee truck pulled into his driveway he knew just how different and bereft it would have been.  
  
“Il faut souffrir pour être belle,” he muttered softly, smiling as he let the curtain fall.

* * *

  
It was so very different, and yet the outcome was similar enough to make him check his peripheral like a nervous rabbit fearing the fox’s teeth. It had been a long time since he’d felt like trusting someone, and he felt the irony that he had picked a man with self confessed trust issues. Still, Will thought as he squeezed himself into the cramped boiler room at the previous residence of Kay Lewis, the third victim in the Chesapeake Ripper case of two years prior, it could be worse.  
  
“Could have been stuck with Zeller,” he breathed out as he crammed his face against the wall and reached his fingertips in behind the boiler itself, feeling them tingle.  
  
The flashlight revealed just what he had expected to find, _the edges of the seal he knew the rest of almost by heart now, skulking out of sight like a fat spider_. Just as it had been on the underside of the sink in the Kingerts. Just as he was sure it would be somewhere just as clandestine at the Llewellyn household, if they could get access.  
  
And there he had to give begrudging credit to the man Beverly had sold to him. Will knew he was as palatable as a lemon stuck with razor blades, but Lecter made him look like a drooling, dribbling lepper in comparison to his well tailored charm. Talking with the residents about past murders, gaining Will entry to their homes to perform magic in order to find a hidden, latent spell in their own residences? He might as well have asked them if they’d have liked some free chocolates and an all expenses paid trip to Disneyland. He didn’t mean to look so amazed, but it had been mesmerising, watching the man work, and confusing seeing the outcome.  
  
Not that he had squandered his chance. Lecter had been the key, and Will had been the hammer. They were two for two so far, _two inactive seals at two previous murder sites._ It meant something, Will was sure it meant something, had to give him insight into the workings somehow, he was just unsure yet what that was. The clock seemed to glare at him angrily from the dashboard, mocking his inability like a bully laughing at a cat drowning in a sinking bag.

“How’d you do that?” Will asked bluntly as he drove them towards the Llewellyns; the sun was heading towards evening and Will hated how the beautiful orange glow against the trees mocked him.  
  
“That?” Lecter asked as he fiddled with the radio; Will gave him a sidelong glance and a shake of the head as classical music swam from the speakers. He wanted to say something about stereotypes but managed to hold his tongue.  
  
“You have a silver tongue, doctor,” Will said.  
  
“Perhaps only in comparison to your forked one.”  
  
“Look, I can admit I don’t make friends easily, but you got me into the houses of complete strangers to do some pretty shady rituals and they looked like I was doing _them_ a favour.”  
  
“Accusing me of witchcraft?” Lecter was smiling; Will noticed he’d been doing a lot of that lately.  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Will said witheringly, “anyway, I suppose I shouldn’t be asking you the obvious questions, because you’ll just twist the answers back on me.”

Lecter didn’t rise to the bait this time, and Will smiled wryly, shaking his head. It was...nice. He could admit that. It was nice to have this, whatever it was.  
  
“You think we are missing something,” Lecter said as they passed an industrial park, most of the cars ahead turning in to trail the parking lot for spaces, “but I would say it is more prudent to look at what we have, and not what we don’t.”  
  
“Agreed,” Will nodded, checking his GPS, “whoever did this, it was coordinated and it was methodical. They wanted to learn something about these people before they murdered them, I mean why else would you hide a seal so expertly? And like Price said the rune of activation, it’s the one thing we can understand from the make-up of that ritual. Why else would you put a trigger pin in a trap if you aren’t waiting to see what sets it off?”  
  
“But every seal you have sniffed out so far has been a proverbial dud,” Lecter noted unhelpfully, “all with snares intact.”  
  
“Then I’m missing something, or _we’re_ missing something aren’t we, really. Don’t see why I should exclude you when you’re so eager to be involved.”  
  
“You know I think I’m going to train myself to enjoy your little apologies,” Lecter said with a smug charm that Will wished he could hate, “they are going to be many and often.”  
  
“Get used to disappointm…”

It was sudden: _smack_ , _squeeze! Like a fist around his heart._ The brakes applied as a bi-product of the shock, his foot jerking, the wheel twisted, the truck squealing to the side and lunging out onto the other side of the road like an alligator after a deer. His eyes fogged and he couldn’t speak, couldn’t think anything but…  
  
_Screaming, she was screaming for him. Hands everywhere, hands and chains and pulling and screaming!_  
  
The touch brought him back from the edge of falling. Will sucked in a staggering breath, eyes blinking, wide, fingers tight around the wheel, the sounds of horns blaring and people shouting angrily. He was shaking, he could feel it but barely understand it. Managing to look to his left he found Lecter, concerned but stalwart as always in the face of Will’s outer madness.  
  
“Will, I need you to let go of the wheel,” Lecter was saying, one hand on his shoulder, the other over his left hand, “can you do that for me?”  
  
“Oh fuck,” Will managed out, choking, “shit, _shit!_ ”

“You appear to having another episode, Will, can you hear my voice?”  
  
“Get out,” Will snapped, eyes wild, “get out of my fucking truck, now!”  
  
“I am afraid I cannot comply with your request,” Lecter said with unbearable rationality in the face of the unexplainable, “I am responsible for you.”  
  
“Get out, just _get out!”_ Will found himself screaming at the man who, in response… _touched his face and looked into his eyes._  
  
“I am right here,” were the four words Will would remember later that night.  
  
“Jesus _christ_ ,” Will whimpered as the feeling of dread began to crawl across his skin, gritting his teeth and unable to do anything more than put his foot back on the gas, pulling out violently around the man who was walking towards them from the car he had nearly hit, now leaping back and cursing at them, gesturing wildly.  
  
No time for him, no time for anyone, no time for red lights, not time for the silent man in the passenger seat. _Someone had her! Someone was hurting her!_ Will floored it, the journey a haze of honking horns and squealing tires. The next thing he was aware of, they were at half way down his driveway and he was unbuckling his seatbelt so he could leap from the car like a wild animal escaping a cage.  
  
“Stay in the fucking car!” Will ordered frantically to Lecter before rushing towards the pull of the spell.  
_  
She was here,_ _she was close,_ _he knew she was, he could feel the Ravenheart calling to him, cawing harshly like an alarm in an echo chamber, resonant,_ _terrified_ _._  
  
He ran, because it was all he could do to stem the rising tide of fear, _not all his, some hers, mostly hers_. The forest called to him like a siren, beckoning him into its embrace. Branches caught in his hair, scratched at his face, roots tripped him, making him scramble up, hands covered in dirt. _Heart racing, eyes searching frantically._ And then there, on the ground caught in the roots of a massive tree, was the charm he had given her, the ravenheart pulsing and pulling at his mind where she must have dropped it.  
  
“Abigail!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting again, “ _Abigail!”_  
  
Nothing but the airy hush of the forest, blanketed by the breeze rustling the leaves. His hands left his face, travelling to his hair, gripping the curls until they pulled painfully. All around him the trees were afire with the dying light of the sun, _all shadows, all darkness._ Soon tracking would be impossible.  
_  
You’re going to lose her too?_ He screamed at himself. _You’re going to lose her!_  
  
“Tell me where you are,” he pleaded, words barely discernable chest clenching tightly, painfully, “please tell me where you _are_.”  
_  
Crack_. There. _A whimper, a yelp_. There! Will sprang forwards, running through a clump of ferns, over a fallen tree, thick with moss and large, flat mushrooms. The ground flew beneath his feet, his ears open to all sounds, _birds tweeting in alarm, small animals scuttling in his wake, the sounds of feet, the whines of pain_. He followed it like the shark follows the drop of blood from a quarter mile, honing in, ignoring the pain from the scratches, the ache in his lungs as he drew in lungful after lungful of freezing air.

And then there, _there it was_. A flicker of colour, bright and sharp. The movement of gold. The swish of a tail. Will didn’t stop running until he reached it. It was the last thing he would have expected to see, if he hadn’t already known it would be there. Golden fur, tail between her legs, ears back.  
  
“Abigail,” he breathed out with the relief of the parent finding the lost child who had slipped their care, rushing in; he dropped to his knees as she whined, barking, and struggled to undo the chain around her neck binding her to the large oak. It came away with a _snick_ and she wrestled her head back and out of the loop, “It’s ok, I promise, I’ll…”

The blow he should have seen coming was worse than he had expected, _a solid boot straight to the ribs_ . It stole his breath and sent him tumbling to the ground, clutching his chest in agony. Wheezing, Will’s vision blurred, mixing the reds with the blacks with the golds. He rolled over onto his side and tried to stand. Abigail was yapping over and over, a squealing bark that spoke of a scream to stop. He managed to grab a handful of earth and organic detritus, muttering a quick incantation. As his attacker closed in on him Will threw it up into the man’s face, making him cruse and yell in pain as the soil sizzled and hissed against his skin.  
  
Another heavy, sinking blow against his flank. The pain flared like a spike of hot iron. He couldn’t control the yell as he tried desperately to crawl across the forest floor, find something, anything. Then a pair of hands grabbed at his jacket, pulling him back through the pine needles and the frozen dirt, curling up under his nails, leaving runnels in the undergrowth.  
  
“Thought you could take my daughter from me?” a familiar voice spoke next to his ear as Will felt himself hauled up, his muscles shrieking in pain, “Try to trick her, fool her, use her for your own ends? ” Will tried to grab at a heavy, dead branch near his right leg but the man behind him hurried round and kicked it away.  
_  
Two of them_ , Will thought as Garret Jacob Hobbs stood before him, grinning, and whoever he had brought with him now held Will from behind. The punch came from nowhere, square against his cheek, Hobbs face a panoply of righteous anger. It send his mind flying.

 _So many dead, so many at his hands, so many more to come_. Will couldn’t see the man’s mind, not truly, he was a person behind a veil, working though a magic blacker than he could ever imagine. When the hands behind him let go with a gasp Will fell against the ground, looking up at the canopy, dazed.  
  
“Oh my god, stop, please _stop_ ! Lets just go,” a woman there, short blond hair curling up as she looked on, horrified, “come on Abigail, honey,” she said tremulously, hands outstretched towards the terrified dog.  
  
“We can’t leave him here,” Garrett spoke loud enough to almost shout, his frenzy building, “You know what will happen if he lives. I am going to end this now, before it..!”

Will braced himself as best he could for the next attack. Only the sound of pain didn’t come from his mouth; it extended out, elongated by confusion, he couldn’t understand where it had come from. The woman was shouting, terrified, and as he managed to roll over he saw it.

Abigail’s canine teeth sunk into her father’s leg, deep enough to draw blood out onto his khaki trousers. The man was grinding out a cry through gritted teeth, jaw clenched tight. When he reached down to grab the dog by the scruff of its neck and shake her Will thought he could see the betrayal coursing through them both.  
  
“Garrett _don’t_ !” the woman cried out, hysterical.  
  
“You dare turn against your family!” Hobbs was screaming as he smacked the dog in the face.  
  
One moment there was a terrified golden mutt, and the next there was a weeping, naked teenager falling against the dirt, her mouth full of blood, teeth thick with it. When the gunshot came Will thought it might have been for him. If he’d been compos mentis enough he might have tried to search his body for the entry wound. Instead he was left bereft, confused as all of the players on the sordid stage stopped stock still, staring at something behind him.  
  
“I believe whatever you are planning would be very unwise.”  
  
He had never been more glad to hear Lecter’s voice, despite being partly livid that the man had disobeyed his order to stay put.  
  
“Why don’t you stay the fuck out of our business,” Hobbs was saying through the pain, “this isn’t a show!”  
  
“Oh honey, it’s going to be ok,” the woman was crouching down over Abigail; _her mother_ , was all Will could think as Abigail began to cry, sobbing furiously, clutching at the woman like a lifeline.

“Will, are you alright?” Lecter asked; Will could hear him approaching, twigs snapping beneath his well shined shoes.  
  
“I’m ok,” he wheezed, coughing roughly as he struggled up, clutching at the nearest tree to stay upright; Lecter stopped next to him, his arm raised, gun pointed, “put that down, for christ’s sake. Just put it down.”

He wouldn’t lie and say he wasn't surprised when Lecter obeyed without question. There was a predatory glint in his eye that gave Will pause, _the look of a hunter finally spying its prey through the thicket._ Garrett Hobbs frowned, wary as if sure this was a trap of some kind. The scene before him was a sensory abattoir, feelings and thoughts and images glaring brighter than the sun, loud and insufferable. Will closed his eyes and leaned heavily, the bark biting at his palm.

It was a waiting game, but only two of them were playing. Lecter stayed put, like an immovable wall, eyes narrowed. Hobbs was staring at his leg, and beyond it the girl who had caused the trauma. Abigail and her mother, twined together like a vine meeting a vine, grasping each other tight enough to smother what little was left of their love.

“I’m sorry, mama,” Abigail managed to get out through her tears, “I am. I am.”  
  
“It’s ok, pup,” Louise Hobbs said as if she thought it could be true as long as she spoke it aloud, “It’s ok, I promise.”

“We’re getting out of here,” Hobbs seethed, “come on, let’s go.”

He hobbled to his wife, grabbing her arm and hauling her up. Abigail let go of her mother as she stood, making the woman’s eyes widen in shock. Garrett turned back, looking to her as if he thought she were mad.  
  
“ _Abigail_ ,” the man said, his quiet belying his anger, “get up, we’re going home.”

“No daddy,” she said, arms wrapped around her chest, “I can’t. I won’t. I’m staying.”  
  
“You ungrateful...” he breathed, taking a threatening step.  
  
This time Will didn’t protest as Lecter raised the pistol, hand steady as he aimed, tutting as Hobbs stared at him, teeth bared.  
  
“It is most impolite to force a lady’s choice,” the man said calmly.  
  
“You’re my kin, Abigail, you do as you are _told_ ,” Hobbs bit out.  
  
“I’m not yours any more,” she said, voice wobbling.  
  
“Abigail please,” Louise said with a sob.  
  
“I can’t mama, I can’t. I won’t be your pawn any longer, neither of you. I want you to go.”

“ _Please_..!” her mother pleaded.  
  
“Get up..!” her father demanded.

“No!” she shouted in reply; the silence was deafening, “ _no_. I want you both to leave, and don’t come for me again. Not _ever_ again.”

The pain was palpable, enough that Will could no longer tell whose it was. Louise wept as she turned her back on her daughter. Garrett looked as if he might risk the bullet to reach her, but Lecter’s aim was unwavering. Instead he stared at her with contempt, leaning over to spit on the ground between them as if it were a physical accumulation of everything he wished he could say. Abigail flinched, shaking as her father turned, putting his arm around his wife’s shoulders. They walked into the forest, shambling over the messy forest floor like a pair of broken marionettes.

The gun was lowered unceremoniously and Lecter handed it to Will who took it gingerly.  
  
“Apologies, I found it in your glove box.”  
  
“I’m not going to level any blame, it was a good call,” Will said as Lecter shuffled out of his heavy overcoat and walked to the girl, still on the ground, curled in on herself.  
  
“You must be cold,” Lecter said kindly, even as Abigail eyed him with suspicion, all flighty jerks and twitches.  
  
“It’s ok, Abigail, he’s a friend,” Will said, nodding as best he could.

The coat drowned her, like a little girl playing dress up, but at least she looked less tense. More in control despite her red rimmed eyes and hollow stare. She walked to Will, staring at her feet. He tried to keep away from her thoughts. For a moment, a strange pause, he thought she was going to beat him, hit him, scratch and tear at him. _Would you stop her if she did?_ He asked himself. He already knew the answer to that question.  
  
“Can you take me home?” she asked with a surprising cogency.  
  
“Sure,” Will nodded; when she leaned in against him Will reached up to run his hand down her hair on impulse.

 _Regret and acceptance, warring with each other like rabid dogs, all fur and teeth._ The world tilted, then swayed, and there was an arm around his back before Will realised he couldn’t stand. He thought he could smell cologne.

“We should get you both somewhere warm,” Lecter held him close.

“Your dad has a mean right hook,” Will tried to play it off, but would later realise that a minor concussion didn’t lend itself to comedy.

* * *

  
It was odd, at first. Will had never been the sort to submit control to another, but it had been necessary. On their return he had found the dogs barking up a storm in the kitchen, the doors and cupboards significantly scratched and clawed. Abigail had been silent since the attack, and on setting foot in the house she ran upstairs and closed her door tight shut behind her. As if the house were his, Lecter had helped Will to the couch and set about sitting him, then manoeuvring him to lie down, _legs up, a cushion beneath his head._ He would have resented it, if he’d been able to. The barrage of questions hadn’t helped.  
  
“Do you feel dizzy? Numb? Can you tell me the date, Will?” Lecter had annoyed him to the point of pretending to be asleep, which hadn’t worked because the man assumed he was suffering from severe head trauma. On being shaken awake and a bright light shined into his right retina, Will had bit out a foul curse that had even Lecter raising a brow.  
  
“I am _fine_ ,” Will said after a long, deep breath, “my ribs hurt, my back hurts and my face feels like someone is slowly pumping up a balloon, but I’m not going to die, ok? Could you just get me...peas, freezer, please? And…”  
  
Lecter paused as Will ran out of words, mouth left hanging open until he shut it tightly. They stayed that way until Will found the strength to broach the question that was now sending up flares in his mind.  
  
“About Abigail...” he tried to start.  
  
“She is a shifter, I am aware Will.”  
  
“I know you know, I was there,” Will gritted out tersely, “but she’s my, look, she’s my ward, ok? I’m responsible for her. She’s staying with me, and I’m going to look after her until she’s ready to go out on her own. I don’t want to hear any phone calls to social services from the next room, ok?”  
When he looked up Lecter was watching him silently, as if he were a particularly wondrous butterfly on a leaf that he did not want to disturb for fear of frightening it away. Will scowled.  
  
“I said ok?”  
  
“Understood,” Lecter nodded; it was all the reply he was afforded.

He had been left, rather disgruntled, in the company of lapping tongues and jumping paws. The dogs had never been respecters of other people’s personal space. Buster, ever the worry wart, had leapt up onto his legs and wandered up to settle on his abdomen, lying down and growling at the others when they became too rowdy. Will had managed a smile, stroking the small dog’s rough fur, before falling into a doze. By the time he woke up decisions had been made that he wished he’d been part of.

“Your house? Are you nuts? I am staying right here, _we_ are staying right here,” Will, sat at his dining room table with Abigail on his left, hot chocolate in her hands and eyes on the table, and Lecter standing at the head looking as if Will should really try and be a bit more grateful, tried to sound as uncompromising as possible.

“You are not safe here,” Lecter stated fairly.

“I _am_ safe. I know this area, there’s magic here that can’t be replicated anywhere else. Abigail explained how her father connived her out of this house, the dogs tried to protect her, he threatened them, she went with him. It was _nothing_ to do with this house being unsafe!”  
  
“Then perhaps this house being a place that everyone who wants you dead or kidnapped knows you will be, precisely, is its intrinsic flaw,” Lecter rebutted, unimpressed.

“And what am I supposed to do, huh? Just up and run at the first sign of trouble?”  
  
“I believe this is the _third_ sign of trouble.”  
  
“Fucking semantics,” Will ground out, “I have responsibilities! What about my pack?”  
  
“Alana has offered to watch them.”

“Of course she has, she’s Alana, she can’t say no to anyone!”

“He’s right.”

Two words that cut the strings, leaving him dangling. Will looked to Abigail with the circumspection of a man at a funeral. That he found her staring back at him was disconcerting, but he bore it.  
  
“I don’t want to stay here either,” she said, before taking a drink.  
  
“Sweetheart, I understand this has been a rough week...”  
  
“Please don’t patronise me,” she said stonily; she took a drink of hot chocolate and that was the last he could get from her for a while. She just sat there and drank her drink, and Will felt that he had been overruled by compassion before logic got a look in .  
  
Which was how he found himself sitting on the gloomy porch, a couple of duffel bags at his feet, watching Alana pull up with her trailer in tow. When her headlights dimmed the world seemed to turn off.

“You know I’m going to have to start charging you by the hour,” she was saying with forced humour, until she was close enough to see him in the light from the living room; she stopped, frowning with worry, “oh my god.”  
  
“If you’re going to chew me out, get in line,” Will couldn’t help but sound defeated.  
  
“Does Jack know?” she asked, folding her arms as if to stop herself from trying to reach out and touch him.  
  
“Probably,” Will shrugged, making her frown, “if you want to know the plan then speak to the tyrant. I don’t get to make any choices any more.”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
The door creaked as it opened. _A fairytale, he thought, sneaking_ _out_ _from the pages._ Will wasn’t sure, as he sat back into his chair and watched them talk, if he was the only one who saw it. Had barely noticed it himself until he’d really started looking at the man, taken an interest. The strange thing, still out of focus, still unclear, but there, somewhere, beneath the skin. To others he must look so normal, Will thought.  
  
“Vigilante violence against unnaturals is hardly new,” Lecter was saying, “but Will hasn’t exactly kept himself out of the public eye. The media have seen to that.”  
  
They had both agreed on the cover story, and it seemed to be working. Will hadn’t decided yet whether Lecter’s easy bending and breaking of rules was something he should be wary of or lucky to find.  
  
“That fucking woman,” Alana was saying tiredly, “the Tattler has never had any moral code but since Lounds took over, well,” she looked at Will and lifted a conciliatory but useless hand, “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Not your fault,” he shrugged.  
  
“Don’t start this,” she said, rubbing at her face, “ok? Please.”  
  
“Ok,” Will sniffed, “I’ll shut up.”  
  
“I’m not doing this,” Alana said categorically, “I’ll take the dogs, it’s fine. Just let’s not do this.”  
  
The need to snap back was fierce, but he managed to avoid it. No need to bite the hand that fed, after all. He felt guilty enough as it was. Will helped coral the dogs into the trailer. Lenny refused to jump up with the others, lying down on the ground with his face between his paws.  
  
“Come on bud,” Will stroked the dog’s head, fingers lifting up his silky ears, “it’ll only be for a little while, I promise.”  
  
He received an annoyed grunt in response. Will sympathised. He watched as his life was bundled into the back of Alana’s trailer, dogs and food and bowls and beds, looked in through the window as plugs were pulled from sockets, food from the fridge, doors and windows locked. It was ominous. He didn’t like it.

“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” he turned on hearing her voice to find Alana double checking the trailer hitch; Will paused cautiously. When she looked up at him her eyes were dark as the night around them, “If you were worried? Because I’m worried.”  
  
“I can’t tell you not to be,” Will sighed, hands in his pockets.  
  
“That a yes?” she asked, trying for levity.  
  
It was difficult not to fall back into the easy comfort. _Wishing he could lean in and hold her, feel her warm and solid in his arms._ Sometimes he wondered if he’d lived a past life with her where they had been happy, and often the times they had been happy in this one were so far from reach they seemed like they might as well have been lived by someone else altogether.

“I feel like...” Will sighed and shook his head, “like I’ve pulled you into my world and now you’re walking around with a target on your back. I don’t want anything to happen to you because...” he cleared his throat and blinked.  
  
“Fuck’s sake,” she let out a short laugh and shuffled her feet; he couldn’t help but return it. She only swore when she was relaxed, which at least gave him some reprieve, “is this how you cheer yourself up after a violent gang beating? Hardcore culpability?”  
  
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Will was left smiling.  
  
“Just because you worry about me doesn’t cancel out my worry for you, get it?”  
  
“We’ll be...” Will caught himself in his slip up in nearly mentioning Abigail, “fine, I mean I will be fine, at Dr. Lecter’s, we’ll be fine there, together.”  
  
Nice save numbnuts, Will berated himself as Alana gave him a curious look. For a moment he thought she might pursue it, but instead she just shook her head.  
  
“So I get the mother hen treatment but he doesn’t?” she asked.  
  
“I lose sleep over all of you, it just gets tiring telling it.”  
  
He knew she didn’t buy it, but there was no energy left in his mind to argue the point. It was difficult to watch her trailer leave, little red lights bumping down the driveway before climbing the small hill. _Another life_ , it whispered to him as the lights disappeared, winking out like candle flames snuffed.

* * *

  
Not that he had expected anything less, but Lecter’s house was just as grand inside as the outer facade promised. The impressive main double doors led to an atrium with a masculine colour palate of gold, black and blue. Tiled floors covered by beautiful rugs, panelled walls holding works of art, an effusion of fresh white lilies teetering in a vase atop a wire frame table, a docile Gothic fireplace fully equipped with poker and brush despite being clean as a whistle, and two chocolate chairs piled so high with cushions that they were neigh unusable. Will Graham’s first impression of Lecter’s house was almost the same as the one he held of the man himself; _an untouchable aesthetic masterpiece_ _with a surface quality akin to that of_ _light dancing off of_ _deep water, daring you to_ _breach the veneer._

“The kitchen is down the hall,” Lecter gestured down an adjoining angular, pale blue corridor that led off to the left towards a set of mahogany doors, closed shut, “dining room,” he patted the door in front of them as he walked past, “and living room. If you will please remove your shoes I will show to you to the guest rooms.”

If he’d still been upset Will would probably have mentioned that Lecter seemed very happy with himself. As it was, drained, tired and on edge, he kept it to himself. He moved through the house on silent socked feet with Abigail trailing him like ghost, trying to get a handle on the space as they became part of it. Anachronistic in its design and function, and yet modern in its conception, the house was filled with intricacies that seemed to detract and distract from the truth of the place. The house was a vast showroom, that was how it appeared to Will. A showroom for the world to believe in, and for the man who lived within its walls to pretend.  
  
“You live here alone?” he asked.  
  
“I do.”

“It’s a bit big for just one person,” Will prodded.  
  
“I find it is just big enough,” Lecter side stepped the question, “especially if guests show up on the fly.”  
  
“Happen a lot?” Will asked as they reached the top of the stairs.  
  
Lecter turned to look at him, an enigmatic look strung in place, “I do believe you are projecting, Will.”  
  
“Don’t start,” Will rolled his eyes.  
  
“He’s lonely too?” Abigail offered unhelpfully, making Will round on her with a scowl, “gees, sorry.”  
  
“I think that it is late, and you both need some rest,” Lecter said without prejudice, for which small mercies Will could be grateful.

His room was unfamiliar and quiet. It was unsettling not to hear the patter of paws, sleepy snuffling, the sound of scuffling and muffled woofs as they dreamed. It was odd not to hear the owls in the trees, or smell the lavender scent on the air from beneath his window. It nipped at him not to have the pull of the wards on his senses, like spider silk, waiting for the tug. Lecter’s house had the feel of a fortress, all heavy locks and thick stone walls, but Will didn’t trust it. Couldn’t allow himself the luxury.

The bed wasn’t firm enough for his liking, though the sheets were intensely soft. Will sat down, then let himself fall back and close his eyes. I should tell Jack where I am, he thought. Yet he didn’t move to make the effort. When the door opened after a short knock Will expected to see Abigail’s cautious face peek around the frame. Instead a tray entered first, making him sit up, and then Lecter followed.  
  
“You haven’t eaten since lunch,” he said, putting down the tray on the bedside table, _a plate of dried fruit and nuts, a couple of slices of plain white meat, a sliced banana, a cup of what smelled like chamomile tea,_ “I assume you are not hungry right now, but if you wake in the night this will save you the trip.”  
  
“...Thanks,” Will managed to resist the need to niggle the man further for his hospitality, _a want to point out all the flaws, to accuse and snap and bite_ , “I mean that. Thank you for this.”  
  
“My pleasure,” Lecter stood, brushing off his hands against each other.  
  
“You weren’t my first choice, you know,” Will said slyly, allowing himself a little reprieve to nip at the man’s calm, enjoying Lecter’s blank but affronted stance.  
  
“Colour me surprised,” he replied demurely, “where did I stand in the running?”  
  
“I called Jack, then Beverly,” he was enjoying himself a little too much when he added, “and Zeller,” but he couldn’t hold onto the white lie, “ok, not Zeller. And I wouldn’t have taken Jack.”  
  
“Second then,” Lecter said, “I’ll take runner up over dead last.”  
  
It wasn’t difficult to notice the trim lines of his figure outlined by the lamp at his back, it was impossible to ignore. Will found himself staring, eyes trailing, until he noted he was being watched and stuttered out a blink, eyes flitting away. He swallowed the feeling down deep, but it only made it _closer_.  
  
“Why did you agree to help me?” Will asked suddenly. It had meant to be nothing but a deflection, but the question he had plucked floating at the top layer of his subconscious had been a prickly one.  
  
“You think me anti-social Will? Enough that I would refuse my home to those who need it?”  
  
“That's not what I meant at all,” Will said seriously; Lecter looked to him, eyes meeting. The silence was still unnerving, _no insight into that enigmatic stare_ , “Alana must have told you what I was, what I’ve done. It’s not a decision one makes lightly, to help a man condemned.”  
  
“That is how you see yourself,” Lecter said with fascination, “a man followed by death.”

“Not death. Sin.”  
  
“I did not take you for a church fearing man.”  
  
“I’m not, and I don’t. Sin is older than the church. Sin is intrinsic.”  
  
“Only to those who believe that morals are standardised.”

“Curses don’t have morals,” Will smiled grimly, “they only have targets.”  
  
“A curse is something imposed by others. Yours, I feel, is self inflicted,” when Lecter sat down next to him the bed dipped, making Will’s fingers tighten into the duvet.  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he blurted out.  
  
“Then why did you bring it up?”

He had no answer. Will kept his eyes on the far wall, his breath coming in stutters as he took a long, deep lungful in.

“Why did you agree to help me when there’s no way you that can?” Will hated what he was admitting.  
  
“You do not want to let go of it as it is all that you have left of her. I understand.”  
  
“If you do, then you’re just as screwed as I am,” Will tried to laugh but choked on it, “there’s no redemption waiting for me.”  
  
“I like to think of redemption as a tool that’s pointed at both ends. Acceptance is the cork that numbs the pain.”  
  
“You don’t know,” Will shook head head, only then realising that there had been tears waiting to fall, dropping from his chin. He wiped his face fitfully. When the hand appeared on his shoulder Will wished he could remove it, but the weight of it was more comfort than he had received in years.

“She was my friend.”  
  
“Blame follows love. You loved her.”  
  
“...Yes,” Will was amazed at the words leaving his mouth, “she was a sister to me. I never thought I’d...” he closed his eyes, fearful of opening them in case he caught sight of **her** , “ _please_ , I don’t want to see.”  
  
“It is important, Will,” Lecter was close, he could feel him; the hand upon his shoulder became the arm across his back. He stayed stock still, a deer in the headlights, muscles rigid as he felt a hand at his face, cupping his cheek, “open your eyes.”  
  
“Please,” the whisper was barely audible, “ _please_ don’t do this to me.”

“We construct fairy tales and we accept them,” Lecter’s words drifted into his mind as if from a distant shore; his touch was mesmerizing, warm, and Will began to forget why he should be afraid.

Opening his eyes was like an absolution, only he couldn’t tell who from.  
  
**She was crouched there, like a gargoyle at his feet. Her hand resting against his knee. Will couldn’t breathe, everything had stopped. Her hair was like straw, caked in blood and dirt. When she raised her head and caught him with her milky eyed stare** **he thought he might not know what was real and what wasn’t** **.**

“Our minds concoct all sorts of fantasies when we don't want to believe something,” Lecter’s breath ghosted against his ear, his voice cutting through the horror; Will took a shuddering breath, “yours haunts the very part of you that you cannot bear to loose.”

**Reaching up was anathema, his own reaction screaming at him. His hand shook violently. She did not move, just watched him with the same mask she always wore.**

“I can’t let her go,” he admitted painfully.  
  
“I did not say you had to,” Lecter told him.  
**  
His hand touched her flesh like a believer might touch the hand of god. When she** **smiled, Will** **could feel himself breaking open** **.**

The next he knew he was clinging to the man next to him like a lifeline, body shaking as he pressed his face against Lecter’s shoulder, hands clawed tight into his shirt. The world was morphing and changing and Will didn’t think he could stand it. _That he could be absolved of the thing that wrapped him up like fishing wire, cutting into his skin even as it held him together._ Without it, without her hatred of him, he didn’t know how to live with the truth.

“Shh,” Lecter was saying as he held him close, “It is alright.”

“I killed her,” he wept, “ _I killed her_! She begged me! She begged me and I-I shot her...”

“It is an absolute rule to always forgive yourself for perceived sins if another has offered it freely,” the words came to him as if he had spoken them himself, as if his own thoughts were given voice, “She trusted you enough to ask you to be the one to take her life. It is the sort of trust most do not see in a lifetime.”

That the pieces slid together through the grief was almost unimaginable, but they did. Slowly _click-click-clicking_ together. Little pieces and bits, subtle hints and clues that he had been absorbing subconsciously. Will found himself pulling away from the scaffold of comfort the man provided, shaky but alert. Lecter was watching him, head tilted, eyes showing slight surprise as he lowered his arms. Will stood and moved out into the room, hugging himself tightly. When he turned he knew he looked dangerous; Lecter didn’t seem the type to be intimidated, but he looked like he might at least respect it.  
  
“I asked you, before,” Will said, “and you never answered me. What are you?”  
  
“And I told you,” Lecter replied, “that discovery is mutual.”  
  
“I know what I am, I’m starting to think I’ve never known what you are,” Will said sceptically, keeping his distance, “I warned you, no I _asked_ you: no manipulation. And you agreed. If you would break that rule, how do I know you haven’t broken others?”  
  
“It is not manipulation if I am only trying to help you.”

“And white lies are just formalities,” Will spat, “don’t bullshit me, doctor! How do you do it? _Tell me_.”

“How do any of us do anything? How do you know what will come in your dreams, Will? How does the migrating bird know its way home? You call it instinct. I’d rather think of it as beatitude.”

“I should have figured it out sooner,” Will sneered to himself, “how you talked Jack into letting you be my keeper when he could hardly bear to let Alana near me the first time, how you got us into those houses, talked Alana into driving all the way to Wolf Trap in the middle of the night. How you’ve always been able to make me spill open, tell you the things I detest most. This is how you make your fucking living, the psychiatrist that can make you confess anything.”  
  
“No need to cut to the quick,” Lecter said with a raised brow, “I don’t sell myself so short. We are men of many talents, not all of them unearned. I have studied my craft just as you have studied yours.”  
  
“Don’t look for camaraderie here. I’m not the one beguiling people for his own ends.”  
  
“For a man who sees everyone’s secrets, it is rather rude to put all of the blame onto me.”  
  
“But I can’t see yours,” Will said stoutly.  
  
“No. Not mine.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Must we go in circles?”

“Then why did you _do it_ to me?”  
  
“Because you cannot bring yourself to accept the truth,” Lecter said, standing; Will refused to back down, _though his instincts were telling him to run as the man drew closer and closer still_ , “that reality will never change, no matter how you punish yourself for it. I refuse to watch you suffer needlessly. I feel responsible for you in a way neither of us might ever come to terms with.”  
  
As Lecter touched his cheek Will refused to move, but as he opened his mouth to continue Will reached up and put his hand over the man’s mouth. It wasn’t as triumphant as he thought it might be, especially when he felt Lecter smiling against his palm. The man’s eyes were clear and without barrier. Will tried to hold onto his hurt, so as not to fall too hard.  
  
“In a minute I’m going to ask you to leave,” Will said softly, “but first I want you to promise me, and I want you to mean it. Never, _never_ do that to me again. Never.”

Lecter reached up and removed Will’s hand, his touch as gentle as a feather and as covetous as a spider touching the fly wrapped in the web. He did not speak, merely lifted a hand, palm flat to his chest, and gave a slow bow. When Lecter stood once more and let go of his hand Will felt lit like a loss, angry at himself that he couldn’t keep the courage of his conviction. Lecter turned and left without another word, closing the door behind him.

“Fuck,” Will said as he sagged, heartfelt in the notion that he was running on a track that couldn’t be derailed no matter how hard he tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story, and this chapter in particular, have been heavily influenced by a film called 'A Dark Song'. If you love the magical-horror genre, love tense atmospheres and absolutely midblowingly wonderful sountracks, watch this film. It is amazing.


	7. Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say thank you for all your kind reviews and encouragement. Things are getting pretty grim in the world at the moment, there are scenes of protest in this chapter that I wrote before the horrible tragedy went down in America regarding George Floyd, this is not meant to be disrespectful. Stand up for your friends, your family, and what is right. #Blacklivesmatter Down with Facism, Down with Racism, Up with Humanity!

The rain was _clink-clanking_ against the gutter pipe outside as it poured from the sky like a never ending biblical event. It made the air in the room spiky, unpleasant. Chilton had never been one for meetings, he preferred to make a choice and then have someone else inform his compatriots of what would be done. So much more efficient, so much more... _regal_. As it was he found himself answering the door for the third time that night, grimacing as his visitor stepped in shaking their umbrella and dripping all over the mat. Clark Ingram should have looked as put out as he did, Chilton was sure, but the man never had anything but a cocksure smile on his face. It was infuriating.  
  
“Make yourself at home,” Chilton said dryly as the man took off his coat and put his umbrella in the stand.  
  
“What a night, huh?” Ingram said, scuffing his feet against the welcome mat, “Couldn’t have postponed?”  
  
“Are you undermining me?” he asked, face unchanging, watching the man as he laughed awkwardly; when Ingram stopped laughing Chilton didn’t break eye contact, “I asked you a question.”  
  
“Wow, someone’s in a mood tonight,” Ingram said, lifting his brows and pulling his chin back to his neck, “hope you’ve got the glasses out because I’m parched.”

The need to punch the man in his smug face had never been more potent. Chilton stayed in the hallway, eyes closed, and took a deep breath as he clenched and unclenched his hands. It took longer than usual to right himself.  
  
The clink of glassware was already ringing on his return to his living room. Decked in out in cream walls, original wooden flooring and dark grey soft furnishings, Chilton had always prided himself on his aesthetic. His profile, his standing as a prominent psychologist and manager of a prominent facility. Things he had worked hard to achieve for them all, his followers, those who _owed_ him.

That was a difficult wall to keep up, however, when said aesthetic was being abused by his erstwhile guests. Of them all, Ingram pouring sloppily for Stammets, Eva holding out her glass to ask for seconds rather frantically and Buddish curled up with his arms folded on the only single armchair, Tobias Budge was their only civilised attendant.  
  
“I feel like you’re drawing this out on purpose,” Buddish piped up as Ingram put down the bottle of wine and threw himself lazily onto the couch by Budge who, quite rightly, moved away from the lout, “it should have been over and done with by now.”  
  
“I told you, there’s no need to rush,” Chilton said, standing by the fire that crackled in the centre of the far wall, “do you want another cock up like last time? What good did that do any of us other than loose us two of our more senior members?”

“I don’t know,” Ingram said, eyes always so calculating even above his playboy smile, “worked out well for you.”

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating,” Chilton smiled nastily, “but I won’t refute that their deaths propelled me into a position worthy of my talents. Or have you forgotten whose efforts found all of our prospective players in the first place? If Graham turns out to be our man, it'll be down to _me,_ ” Chilton took a large sip of wine and savoured the taste on his tongue, “I’ll be the one to right the wrongs.”  
  
“Yes but it all fits, doesn’t it?” Eva piped up, eyes bright; her long, straggling hair made her look unhinged. Chilton wished she didn’t feel the need to act so uncontrollable, but then she was the best at looking after new members, bringing them around to their cause, “It makes sense that it was him all along!”  
  
“Like I said,” Buddish looked up sullenly, his heavy brow and thick jaw set stubbornly as he gestured to Eva in solidarity, “we should be moving this all along. You say we have all the time in the world, but we don’t.”  
  
“Oh, this old chestnut again!” Ingram said with a sweeping gesture, laughing patronisingly, “Elliot, you’d think they were about to bash down your doors and steal you away in the dead of night.”  
  
“The Registry has certainly been more active,” Stammets agreed, ever the toady, “remember the raids of eighty four? A lot of the signs are repeating themselves, like this recent crackdown on unregistered halfbreeds, issuing statements that play down the violence, brainwashing the masses, it’s the same. Soon there’ll be riots and dead in the streets.”

“It’s what they want,” Buddish said darkly, “easier to gun us down legally than to take us against popular vote.”  
  
“You’re all grabbing onto the hysteria train,” Chilton shook his head.  
  
“Oh? Then why are we here, Frederick?” Budge finally spoke up, dark eyes lifting to him as he sipped brandy from a large snifter.

It was difficult to ignore those eyes, watching him closely. Chilton couldn’t help but smile, inclining his head in thanks to the man who had given him back the stage.

“We are here because there has been a change in schedule,” he said, sending a ripple of interest through the room, “Buddish, this should please you. We’re asking Hobbs to escalate the next phase of the plan.”  
  
“About time,” Buddish muttered, a glint in his eye.  
  
“But we’re not all here,” Eva said, glancing around the room, “don’t we need everyone, have a vote or something?”

“A vote?” Chilton spat out the word.

“Yeah, where’s she who shall not be named?” Ingram cut in, grinning, “Not deigning us with her presence?”  
  
“I didn’t invite her,” Chilton said with a shrug.  
  
“If she finds out...” Eva said, twitching with worry.  
  
“She will only find out if one of you degenerates _tells_ her, won’t she,” Chilton said tightly, eyeing them one by one, “I don’t want any of this getting back to Lecter.”  
  
“Oh fuck’s sake,” Ingram said sourly, “it’s always fucking Lecter with you, isn’t it. Who cares. He doesn’t bother us, we don’t bother him. He’s never wanted to be involved.”

“It’s not that simple, never has been,” Chilton said, “if her information can be trusted.”  
  
“You saying she _can’t_ be trusted now? It was your idea in the first place to put them back together,” Stammets said, looking confused, “I thought she was working with us?”  
  
“Who knows,” Buddish said seriously, “Bedelia has always been her own woman. Would you trust her?”  
  
“I’d trust her intel,” Stammets rejoined, gesturing with his hands.  
  
“Well more fool you Eldon…” Tobias said with a raised brow as he sipped his wine.

 _Bang, bang, bang_ . Each thump at his door sent waves of silence across the room, each and every member of their congregation sitting up, _flight or fight_. Chilton turned to face the door, unable to hide his alarm.

“You expecting anyone else?” Ingram asked businesslike, face set, eyes cold, all pretence gone.

“No,” Chilton ground out; scanning the room quickly he lifted a hand and moved it slowly through the air. Everyone sat back, understanding. When his hand reached Budge, Chilton turned it palm up and curled his fingers in. Tobias smiled and stood, walking to him.  
  
“ _Kitchen_ ,” he whispered into the man’s ear when he was close enough.

The pounding at the door was still in full swing as Chilton walked confidently down the hallway, unsure what to expect on the other side. Not that he had ever been a coward, no, he liked to think that he just had a heightened sense of self worth. Enough that he put the chain on before opening the door. When it was pushed back violently, making Chilton retreat as it caught against the chain with a rattling thunk, he was glad he had.

“Chilton? Chilton let us in!”  
  
“What in the _hell_ are you doing here!” Chilton recognised the voice, unhooking the chain and opening the door wide; _Garrett and Louise Hobbs, like drowned rats on his doorstep_ , “Get in here at once. Did anyone follow you? Has anyone seen you?”  
  
“No, course not,” Garrett said resolutely; Chilton took solace in that at least. The man may have been a lowlife, but Chilton trusted his instincts.  
  
“Get into the kitchen, both of you, you’re making a mess of my floor,” Chilton sneered, watching as they hurried down his corridor.

Always, _always_ , Chilton thought angrily as he marched after them and closed the door to the kitchen behind them with a snap, it’s always _something_ . Can’t anything go smoothly just for once! He hated that it was becoming a mantra.  
  
“This had better be good,” Chilton said testily, turning back into the room to find the last thing he’d expected.

A gun, an old gun and not very well maintained if he was honest, but a gun nonetheless. Garrett was holding it levelly at him but he could see the quiver in the man’s arm. At his side Louise looked stalwart but petrified. He couldn’t blame her. When Chilton began to laugh, low in his throat, Garrett growled, cocking the old pistol as if to show his resolve.  
  
“We won’t be working for you any more,” Garrett said.  
  
“Oh, _oh_ , that’s fantastic,” Chilton clapped his hands together, bending backwards as he laughed.  
  
“You think this is a _joke_ ?”  
  
“I think that you don’t regard it as so,” Chilton said, wiping at his eyes, “fatally, some might say.”

“I’m the one with the threats, Frederick,” Garrett said tightly, eyes focused on him intently.  
  
“We want you to leave us alone,” Louise said, voice shaking, “we just want to go. And Abigail. You need to leave her out of this, she’s no more use to you.”  
  
“Really? And why is that?” Chilton asked, still smiling.  
  
“Cause they’re not at that little house in the forest any longer,” Garrett grinned desperately as Chilton’s face fell.  
  
“What are you talking about?” Chilton asked, voice whispery in shock.  
  
“Got scared out,” Garrett looked shifty, “there was someone else there. Took them away.”  
  
“If you could try,” Chilton knew he was furious as he lost control of his tone, “and be, more, _specific!”_

“W-we don’t know w-who he was,” Louise stuttered out, terrified; when Chilton’s stare levelled at her she seized up.

He smiled disarmingly, putting his clasped hands to his chin and stepping forwards, eyes relaxed and open, “Come now, chérie. There is nothing to be scared of. You must have seen him, yes? You could tell me what he looked like?”

She stared at him like a deer in headlights, resisting the need to run. Chilton hated that she wouldn’t just do as she was _told!_

“Don’t tell him anything,” Garret whispered to her.

“Tell me what he looked like!” he barked out, making her start.

“He was...he was tall, dark hair and his eyes, they cut right through,” she said softly, confused by her own words, her lack of fear, “they were the strangest colour, so brown and yet so red, like dark wine.”  
  
He should have known, really. In a way he thought he already might have, considering the man never cared to keep his actions quiet, only his machinations. Hannibal fucking Lecter, Chilton seethed.

“Louise don’t listen to him!” Garrett shouted as Chilton dropped the pretence.  
  
“Now Tobias,” he said lazily, “the woman.”

It wasn’t just the man’s stealth that he found so fascinating as he appeared from the shadows behind the fridge, or his brutality as he stepped up behind Louise Hobbs and slit her throat in one long, deep drag of the chef’s knife. It was the obedience that made Chilton hard, licking his lips as he felt the power some only dream of.

As for Garrett Hobbs, he hadn’t even flinched. On turning his pistol on Tobias he had been disarmed with ease, _candy from a baby_. The gun was turned on him, levelled at his temple. The man looked shocked as he watched his wife crumple to the floor, gurgling in a rather unpleasant manner as she tried to hold her gaping wound closed, blood spewing to the floor in gouts, slaking her clothes, in her hair, under her nails, as her eyes clouded and she gasped her last on his kitchen tiles. But he did not move a muscle to help, did not protest, did not curse or blame. Chilton watched him with interest, like one might an aberrant insect in their collection.

“Not even a tear?” Chilton said as he watched Hobbs watch his wife die, “Would you weep for dear Abigail?”

“You won’t touch a hair on that girl’s head,” Garrett scraped the words out of his throat like a curse.

“Oh but I will, you see,” Chilton said as he walked forwards, stepping over the quickly cooling corpse of Louise Hobbs, careful to avoid the blood, “I get what I want. It’s what makes the waiting worth it. And if you think I’m the sort to abandon years of work for a kink in the wire then you’re dead wrong. Oh, ha,” he smirked at Tobias, “I think that might have been a pun.”

“Goddammit, what do you want!” Hobbs shouted, shaking with frustration.

“You know what I want. I want the proof I need, and then if it shows positive I want him delivered to me. After that, you and your precious Abigail can skip off like two little lambs escaping the slaughterhouse. Comprende?”  
  
He thought there might have been more fight, but the man seemed to be taking him seriously at last. Chilton stayed his ground as Hobbs barrelled past him. Only on looking down did he realise that the man had tracked bloody footprints across his floor, as if his wife was still clinging to him now.  
  
“Ugh, the absolute swine, he has ruined my _evening_ !” Chilton said furiously, slamming his hand into the nearest counter top; truthfully he wasn’t sure himself if he meant Hobbs or Lecter.  
  
“It’s alright, it will be fine,” Tobias hurried to him, dumping the gun and the blade onto the counter and placing his hands against Chilton’s chest, practically purring, “ we can fix this.”  
  
“You don’t understand, you can’t,” Chilton threw a hand up dramatically, “you’ve never met the man, have you. This won’t be a simple task.”

“I am yours, my love,” Tobias said as his fingers curled, kneading him gently, “I can take care of Lecter, for you, just for you.”

“Oh my sweet beau,” Chilton gripped Budge’s right hand and lifted it to his lips, suckling his middle finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue against the digit so as to taste the sweet blood there. Tobias’ breath hitched, mouth left open, inviting, his pupils wide. It came away with a soft pop, “I know you will,” looking over to what had once been a woman atop the slowly widening pool of crimson he smiled, shark like, “at least we won’t have to order out.”

The kiss was rough; Chilton gripped the back of the younger man’s neck as he devoured him, the smell of blood thick in his nostrils, the feel of Budge’s sweet, caramel flesh bending at the slightest pressure. _I can take care of Lecter, for you, just for you._ The plea was so heartfelt, so lusty and verdant with devotion, that Chilton allowed himself a sweet moment to believe it could be true. As he pushed Budge to his knees and watched the man undo his fly with greedy fingers, Chilton couldn’t help but picture the spectre of the man that haunted them all standing in the shadows.  
 _Maroon eyes watching their every move as if it were the punchline to a particularly funny joke._

* * *

  
“ _Are you kidding me?” she asked, face set and unimpressed, “That’s not a solution.”_

_With Buster on his lap, Will had been forced to sit up on the chair, legs folded, and accommodate the dog’s fussy need for comfort. When he didn’t answer Miriam sat back on the couch with a large slice of pizza in her hands and shook her head, staring at the TV._

“ _Can you use a plate, please?” Will groused, “Like a civilised person?”  
  
“This from the man who just admitted to me he’s planning to spend the rest of his life as a hermit.”  
  
“Yeah, and you’re not helping, turning up at my door with take out and destroying my mission for complete solitude.”_

_For a second she looked like she might lash out, but instead stuck out her tongue. He laughed, shaking his head, stroking Buster’s rough fur as the dog snuffled in his sleep, paws twitching. They watched in silence for a little while, or for as long as Miriam was able to stand it. Will was sure he could go on living in silence forever if he tried hard enough._

“ _Just seems a shame, is all,” she said as she threw her crust back into the box.  
  
“What, that you don’t eat the crust? That’s borderline criminal, you know,” Will said sarcastically._

“ _I mean it, Will,” she sighed, “fuck’s sake, after all the shit you’ve been through you at least deserve to find someone that can make you happy.”_

“ _Don’t start this conversation all over again, it’s so fucking cliché,” Will sighed, “how happy would you be living with someone who projected their thoughts at you twenty four seven, who you couldn’t touch without knowing all their sordid little secrets? Doesn’t exactly make for wedding vows does it? Anyway when’s the last long term relationship you had?”  
  
“The Bureau is my long term relationship,” she countered, shrugging, “might as well have a ring on my finger.”  
  
“Nice excuse,” Will said sourly._

“ _At least I have an excuse, Mister Consultant,” she taunted._

“ _Better that than in a loveless marriage with a government body,” he said deadpan.  
  
“Just forget it,” she stopped, sighing._

_The sound from the TV seemed loud as their conversation dried up. Will felt it like a physical buffer. Letting out a sound of frustration he licked his bottom lip and forced himself to think of something, to speak up._

“ _Anyway, I’m not really alone,” Will tried to cheer her up, “Got the mutts don’t I? And I have you.”  
  
“Wow, such charm! Good to know I’m second in the running,” her laugh was strained as she stared at him, affronted, but he knew she was trying to lighten the mood, “I think this means it’s your turn to get me more dip, so I can eat your oh so precious crusts.”_

“ _I can’t,” Will pointed at Buster just as Miriam reached forwards and crinkled a Doritos packet; the little dog woke up with a start, ears perked, and jumped from Will’s lap to stretch and wag his stumpy tail, sniffing at Miriam with his paw raised, “traitor,” Will said half heartedly, “alright fine.”_

_His legs were stiff, toes tingling with pins and needles, making him shake his feet as he walked to the kitchen. The room was dark but the light from the fridge was enough to go by. Behind him she was laughing, he thought he could hear her laughing at something, something he couldn’t quite make out…_

“What are you..?” he turned and stopped dead.

His kitchen was gone, as was the living room beyond the open door, the sounds of the dogs and the sounds of laughter. Will stopped stock still, blinking, mouth left hanging open with words unsaid.

On turning to look jerkily at the fridge he’d expected to be there Will found a well kept wardrobe, all shirts and suit jackets and trousers hung neatly, ties rolled away in see through drawers, shoes sitting angled in pairs on racks. When he managed to take note of his body beyond the jarring transition he found his hands gripped tight around the wardrobe doors. He let go on instinct, backing away as the doors swung shut, bouncing noisily.

“Will?”

“Oh jesus,” Will whispered, shaking his head as he forced himself to look.

There, to his right, Lecter was propped up on a forearm in his bed, watching him. _How long?_ Was the question that sprang to his messy mind as his eyes sprinted about the room, taking in everything, _the long striped cushion atop the love-seat at the end of the bed, the grand headboard in turquoise and gold, those two colours extending out into the room, colouring the ceiling and the walls which, in turn, were decked in beautiful Japanese prints much like those in Lecter’s waiting room._ Finally his eyes came back to the truth of his situation, the man watching him with the ever present calm acceptance. As Lecter sat up Will retreated further into the room, swallowing as the covers fell away revealing skin over muscle.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” was all Will could offer as he shook his head, coming to his senses and heading for the door only to be blocked by sleepy eyes.  
  
“What’s going on?” Abigail asked, rubbing her face tiredly and pulling her long dark hair back into a ponytail.

“Nothing,” Will said quickly, ushering her out of the way; she moved back dramatically as he barged past, rolling her eyes.  
 _  
Are you two having_ sex _?_ At first the question had been so clear, so frank, that Will thought she had said it aloud.

“Fucking christ Abigail! No, we are _not._ I was sleepwalking. Go back to bed.”  
  
“I didn’t say anything!” she argued, frowning; Will realised his mistake and blushed, making Abigail smirk in return, “Nice excuse by the way,” she said, smarmy as he marched across the landing.

“Will you shut the hell up and go back to your room..?” he bit out fractiously; as he gripped his door and turned to throw something equally nasty, he stopped as Lecter appeared at his doorway, pulling on a heavy robe over his sleeping trousers, “and don’t you fucking start either!”

The man merely looked at him with unwarranted warmth as he tied the forest green robe shut, hair not yet brushed back to its pin-neat perfection.

“I suppose breakfast will be early today,” Lecter said, voice husky with sleep, “any preferences Abigail?”  
  
“I don’t care,” she shrugged capriciously.

“Then I think crepes, they are always perfect for the indecisive morning diner,” he said as he padded out onto the landing and headed for the stairs, stopping to look over his shoulder, “how do you take your coffee, Will?”

Slamming the door in his face seemed reasonable at the time.

* * *

  
The shower was screaming hot, enough to hope that it could eradicate the prickle on his skin, _It would be today, someone today,_ and the tightness in his abdomen, _warm hands against his face, his neck,_ _revelling in the easy erotica of sheer touch_ _._ To say that it didn’t help was an understatement. Lecter’s shower room was incredible, he’d admit it. _Maybe it had already happened._ A wet room in grey tile, jungle plants infesting the corners and the window ledges, peace lily’s, dragon trees, spider plants. _What if you’re not the only one who feels the connection? What does Lecter dream of in that fucking beautiful room of his?_ It felt dark and enveloping, the lights dimmed. _Maybe, what if...it was happening right now? Scalpel,_ _Finochietto retracter, bags to keep the organs fresh._ The massive shower head was another bonus, as was the array of expensive and wonderful smelling gels and moisturisers the man owned.  
  
It was difficult to keep the worlds separate. Never his forte, he knew that. In the arena of his mind there was no room for the thoughts he wished to stay sacred. Will chastised himself as he lathered his skin, unable to stop his mind from wondering. The geranium scented shower gel was thick and rich as he pulled it across his chest, _the y-incision to split them, peel them like a ripe fruit,_ fingers curling into his skin as his other hand descended lower and lower, _would he touch you if you asked him? Would you ask him?_ Wasn’t surprised to find himself half hard, taking hold with a soft moan, head falling back into the spray. He wished it was simple, to take what he wanted from the memories, but everything was falling apart, all of the pieces crumbling together, each indiscernible from the next.

 _Breathy words whispered into his ear as the man held him, fingers against his skin. Not difficult to turn, no, be pushed back against the soft sheets._ They eat them, don’t they. They devour the dead like a funeral rite. _Lecter was taller than he was, broader in the shoulders. Stronger. Will was sure he wouldn’t be able to stop him if he decided to overpower him._ The seal was key, somehow it was everything, sitting there like a puzzle box asking to be solved. _Would you want him to? Probably not. Probably? Ok, I’m not sure. The skin he had seen as Lecter sat up was taut, prime, made him seem far younger than he came across. It would be soft beneath his fingers._ What name will you be adding to the lost memorial? Who will remember these poor wretches? No open casket for the empty ones. _Would the man react? He seemed to react to nothing with any passion. Would he? If Will gave himself openly would he..?_

The orgasm was short lived as he bit into his lip a little too hard, hissing in pain. Brought everything sharply into focus, the water splashing against the tile, the smell of the foam on his skin, the aching bruises at his chest and back, on his face though they had faded a little. The sickness in his gut as he washed the soap from his skin harshly.

“Banished to wet dreams and jerking off in the shower,” Will groaned, “you’re a sad sack, Graham, you know that, don’t you. Fuck’s sake.”

Staring into the mirror, Will didn’t like what he saw. _The bruises had yellowed and browned, leaving him like an autumn leaf, sickly_. And now his split lip didn’t help. It clashed with his beard, making him look like a down and out. Rummaging through his bag he’d brought from home Will made a quick decision as he turned on the electric shaver and pressed it to his skin.

He held onto that thought as he dried and dressed himself, then left the house without breakfast or so much as a goodbye. In truth he wished he could have spoken to Abigail. Wanted to talk to her, make sure she was ok, needed to tell her about her trial. Only he wasn’t willing to risk being talked into anything that would keep him from work. That he had asked Lecter not to use his unusual power was one thing, it was another altogether to trust the man to keep his word.

The world was a malaise of grey, from the sky to the buildings to the road, all soaked by nightly rain. At every stop light he checked his phone, amazed that a message from Jack wasn’t waiting there for him, blazoned in the man’s frank tone. So distracted was he by the lack of communication that he hadn’t paid attention to his destination until the last second. He hadn’t expected it, but when he saw it he wasn’t exactly surprised.  
  
“Fucking great,” Will said as he pulled up the handbrake and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.  
  
The gathering was centred around the leafy and understated entrance to Quantico’s car park. Unnaturals and their supporters, every last one it seemed. There were maybe only forty of them, which made their protest seem all the sadder for it. Yet what they lacked in numbers they made up for in effort, he would give them that. Banners and placards held high, shouts loud enough to be heard through his closed windows from across the street. The woman at the head of it all had a handheld megaphone with which she led a chant, _‘The truth for Jessica! The truth for Michael! The truth for..!’_. A memorial, he thought guiltily, here’s your memorial. A litany of failure.  
  
The police standing by the sidelines weren’t looking worried, but Will didn’t trust that. He’d seen peaceful protests devolve into violence too many times. He drove up slowly to the gate that led to the long, tree lined car park, feeling their hatred from a dozen paces, their fear leaching into the cab like smog. As he approached it only worsened. They converged like hyenas on a kill, only the police and temporary barriers keeping them at bay. As the rattled their placards and screamed their hate Will was amazed to see some of them without their glamours, _showing teeth as fangs, skin as fur, horns poking up through hair, cloven hooves instead of feet._  
  
“ _Justice_ _for everyone_ _, pig!_ ” seemed to be a favourite, as well as “ _Traitor!_ ”. It seemed that Freddie Lounds’ little expose had done its damage.

“Morning mister Graham,” the guard nodded from his booth, voice muffled as he kept the window closed; Will had to strain to hear him over the shouts and yells of the crowd, “I was told to pass a message. Agent Crawford is waiting for you in lecture hall three.”  
  
Will nodded in reply, lifting a hand in thanks as the gates rolled open. The relief was palpable as he drove in, _as if he could breathe again_. The emotional turmoil melting away, leaving behind only his own fears and doubts and anger. And soon there will be another name for them to add to their memorial; it was all he could think as he parked, sitting for longer than he’d meant to, staring at the trees as the snow melted from the branches, as heavy, grey clouds converged and rain began to spatter against the windscreen. Taking a long, deep breath, Will opened his door forcefully and stepped out as the downpour began.

* * *

  
“It seems we will not be joined for breakfast today,” Hannibal said as they listened to the main door slam.

To say he was disappointed was an understatement, but to say he was surprised would have been foolish. It seemed Will didn’t take kindly to embarrassment, and even less kindly to people probing into his private business. It would take work, delicate work, to gain his trust. Last night he had been greedy, difficult to resist with the man so close and so vulnerable. He had pushed too hard and been burned in the process. _Will was sharp as a razor, the first he had ever_ _discovered able_ _to realise the manipulation before it was complete_. Hannibal found it impossible not to revel in it, even as it inconvenienced him.

Will Graham was…everything he’d ever hoped for. More even.

“He’s weird about personal stuff,” Abigail shrugged, helping herself to another crepe, loading it with whipped cream.

“Aren’t we all,” Hannibal said as he squeezed a slice of lemon over his own breakfast and wiped his hands on a heavy napkin.

“Um, Hannibal..? Can I call you Hannibal?”

“If you like,” he said amiably.

“Are you friends? Will called you his friend.”

“I like to think so.”

“Then why doesn’t he call you by your first name?” she asked, niggling.

“Will likes to keep people at arm's length by any means possible,” Lecter said.

“He calls me Abigail,” she shot back.

“That is because he cares about you a great deal,” Lecter said without hesitation, making Abigail look to her breakfast, abashed; the breakfast table became quiet and Hannibal let out a short sigh. Today’s plan would have to be changed, though he thought that it might be simpler in the long run with this new addition, “are these the only clothes you have?” he asked as he gestured to her oversized plaid shirt and long shorts held up with a belt.

“Yeah,” she said brazenly, “Will loaned them to me.”

“I can tell,” he said, smiling, “I thought perhaps we could go to the shops and get you something more fitting.”

“What is this?” she said, watching him with dark eyes over a sharp, coy smile, “Trying to groom me or something?”

The laugh he let loose was long and low but showed teeth, “Sorry, my darling, but you aren’t my type.”

She raised a brow and stared at him, unimpressed. After shovelling the rest of her breakfast into her mouth in record time, enough that Hannibal couldn’t help but find it rather vulgar, she sat back and stretched.

“Fine. You’re rich, right? If you’re going to buy me stuff it better be nice.”

He would admit it was rather pleasant having a fresh, foolishly naive mind around him as he moved through his day. Sort of like a pet, he was sure this was how people with pets felt. He could maybe understand the appeal she had to Will, _a tragic soul trapped in a teenager’s body_.  
  
She was amazed at the Bentley, looking around conceitedly as they drove into town. She chattered away, singing like a canary at every question he asked. Too young and too short-sighted to even understand that he might be exploiting her first hand knowledge of his real target.

“He’s kind of crazy, but I like him,” Abigail was saying.

“Crazy? I wouldn’t say so,” he prompted.

“Well you wouldn’t, you haven’t seen him nearly sleep walk off his own roof,” she scoffed.  
  
“Somnambulism can take us many places, but it does not denote mental health issues.”

“What about sneaking out in the middle of the night to run around in the woods with his dogs?” she offered.

“That doesn’t sound too implausible,” Hannibal rebutted.

“ _Naked_ ,” she said, orotund.

“Oh, well yes, that is a little odd,” he admitted as he filed the information away.

“I can’t believe he just left like that. I really needed to speak to him,” she continued huffily.

“About your ritual?” he asked simply.

She blanched, eyes wide, “How did you know? Did he _tell_ you?”

“Of course not. Will holds you very close to his heart, little one.”

“Then how’d you know?” she asked sceptically.

“The magic in your skin is most profuse,” Lecter said as he found a parking space, pulling in smoothly, “I can smell it.”

“You can smell magic,” she said flatly with an unimpressed stare.

“To an extent,” Lecter said as he brought up the handbrake.  
  
“What are you, some sort of witch hunter?”

Hannibal laughed genuinely as he turned off the engine, noting her narrow stare, “You need not fear for dear Will. I would see him further from harm, not closer to it.”

Then her narrow eyed stare became a wide eyed stare became a triumphant look. She looked at him smugly.

“Oh my god, you’re _into_ him, aren’t you?”

“Come, if we don’t go soon we’ll miss the quiet time before the hoards descend,” Hannibal deigned not to answer, “I’d rather not be trapped in with the rabble.”

“ _Wow_ ,” she said, giggling even as she feigned embarrassment at his attitude, “this is all so baroque.”

* * *

  
“Ok, you look like _shit_ ,” Zeller said unreservedly.

“I try,” Will said, rubbing at his cheek self-consciously, hair dripping into his eyes.

On arriving at the Lecture hall Will had been glad to find Jack and Jimmy absent, for different but equally good reasons. Jack because he wasn’t quite ready to spin his new lie to the man, and Jimmy because at that moment he didn’t think he could face the man’s upbeat attitude. At least with Zeller he knew where he stood, and with Beverly he could rely on some support. Who would have fucking thought, Will told himself wryly.

“What happened?” Beverly, who had been messing with the projector, asked as she looked up and caught sight of his face.

“I’m not really in the mood to tell it twice,” Will evaded, “I’m sure Jack will pitch a fit when he sees, if you’re really interested you can listen in.”

She didn’t look impressed, and for a moment, just a _split-second_ , he thought he could see Miriam’s face over hers. _The same blunt_ _set to her mouth, eyes that spoke of a need to shout some sense into him_. Will looked away quickly, scanning the empty lecture hall. Picking a seat at the front he pulled off his wet jacket and mussed his hair to help it dry before sitting. When he looked up he’d expected it to be Beverly, ever unwavering in the face of his bullshit, demanding answers.

Instead he found Brian Zeller, looking pissed off and unsure of himself; before Will could open his mouth to offer something cutting Zeller beat him to it, “Look, can we talk? Somewhere?”

Will hesitated, rubbing at a twitch in his right eye, before looking back at the man; _his mind a mass of uncertainty, veiling it like a bride about to flee from a wedding_.  
  
“Sure,” he relented with a short sigh, “come on.”

They left the lecture hall under the watchful eye of Beverly, out into the empty corridor lined down one side with large windows. Will squinted at the natural light, eyes adjusting. Next to him Zeller fidgeted before putting his hands on his hips.

“What is it? Looking to get a few shots in yourself before Jack sees the bruises?” Will couldn’t help but mock.

“What? _No_ , jesus,” Zeller frowned, hesitating again before closing his eyes and grinding out, “I’m sorry, ok?”  
  
“For what?” Will asked dryly, frowning.

“You’re kidding me right?” Zeller let out a choked laugh, “For all my bullshit. How I’ve been treating you.”

“Brian, if you think that _your_ bullshit is the sort of thing I’ve been waiting desperately, aching for an apology over, then you’ve severely underestimated the kind of bullshit I’m subjected to on a daily basis,” Will said with a raised brow.

“Wow,” Zeller said, shaking his head and smirking, “you really can’t even take an apology? Come on!”

“I don’t need it,” Will said sourly, “it’s not an apology, you just want me to say I forgive you. Well, I never really blamed you in the first place, happy?”

“Not really,” Zeller ground out, “So what? You’re just so inured to people spouting hate at you that it’s become the norm? Yeah, that makes me real fucking happy.”  
  
“Oh what do you care all of a sudden?” Will spat.

“I was trying to apologise!” Zeller shouted before reigning himself back in, closing his eyes and seeming to fight the urge to continue his diatribe.

 _And there, amidst the chaos, floated the nugget of truth Will hadn’t been expecting to find._ Thoughts straying, images of a girl, images of a woman, images of childhood, adulthood, _growing up._ Will felt his face soften, just a little. As Brian opened his eyes he caught Will staring at him before looking away, contrite.

“What is she to you? Your sister?” he asked, making Zeller curse.  
  
“Fucking hell, can’t you keep to your fucking self for _five minutes_?”  
  
“I’m sorry, ok! I can’t help it if you’re projecting!”  
  
“Projecting? Give me a break!”  
  
“When people get angry they force the things they don’t want to think about up into their conscious thought processes,” Will explained angrily, “and when I get angry I find it difficult to control what I pick up and what I block out. If I could don’t you think I would?” he added bitterly.

It seemed like, any second, Zeller might take him up on his first offer of a punching match. Instead the man sagged, turning to lean against the wall and stare at the floor. Will wondered if Beverly was listening in, or if she really trusted Zeller enough to leave him alone with Will while they screamed blue murder at one another. It gave him a little reassurance as to Zeller’s character that she had, at least.

“She’s my stepsister,” Brian admitted eventually, “my dad remarried after mom died.”

“She’s a halfbreed,” Will said, amazed that the admission out loud made Zeller scan the corridor in a panic.

“Could you..? Not so loud?”

“Bone of contention is it?” Will asked caustically.

“Look, we’ve had our differences, but even you understand that it’s not just the unnaturals that get the flack, it’s the families too. I don’t like magic, all it has done is caused me fucking grief since I was thirteen and she showed for the first time. And no, before you ask, I don’t care that she’s different. She’s my sister, always will be, I don’t care who her fucking mother is.”

Will scratched at his scalp, itching as the rainwater began to dry. They stood in silence, respecting each other’s boundaries, until Will felt that Zeller might not be able to stand it any longer.

“What is she?” he asked softly.

“Nothing you’ll have heard of,” Zeller said, the comeback so slick that Will was sure he used it a lot.

“You’d be surprised,” Will said, catching the man’s eye.  
  
“...Yeah, I guess I would,” Brian said, frown loosening, “she’s nuckelavee.”

“Wow, really? Are you serious?” Will couldn’t hide his genuine surprise, “I’ve never met one. I thought they were all relegated to their homeland. Her parents Orcadian?”

“Shetlanders. And the laws have been loosened over there for a while,” Zeller sounded uncomfortable talking about it.  
  
“Can she do the water horse thing?” he asked, genuinely interested, “You know, transform?”  
  
“No,” Zeller looked at him as if he were a rube; Will couldn’t help but smile, “her hands and feet are webbed though.”  
  
“That’s... _amazing_ ,” Will said, blinking, thinking back through his codex of mythical creatures to try and remember anything salient about Scottish folklore. When he realised how uneasy Zeller was he took pity, changing the subject, “look. Apology accepted, ok?” when Zeller looked to him with surprise and nodded, Will made to walk back into the lecture hall.

“Wait,” Brian blurted out, stopping him.

Just then the door at the end of the long corridor clicked and swung open, letting in the sound of chattering and footfalls. Jack and Jimmy, in heated conversation as they led in the entire of Jack’s team from floor three, from researchers to admin staff. The crowd was slowly advancing on them, even as it paid them no heed. Will felt Zeller tug at his shirt and looked back to find the man close. The need to back away was tight and hot but Will stood his ground when he saw the ardent look in Zeller’s eyes.

“Last night,” the man spoke quickly, just above a whisper, “Jack took me and a couple of guys from security and we went out to the Motel 6 near Charles Village. Freddie Lounds was there and he threatened to arrest her.”

“So..?” Will frowned as the cavalcade grew closer, “What Jack has a conscience now?”

“He let her go,” Zeller continued sharply, “on the condition she do something for him. I think he wants her to spy...” his eyes flicked over Will’s shoulder as he cut himself short, looking worried.

When he shoved him, hard, Will hadn’t been expecting it. Not enough to stop himself from stumbling, or to keep the barrage of thoughts at bay: _Play along, play along, for fuck’s sake play along!_

“Why don’t you shut your fucking mouth, huh?” Zeller shouted.

“Screw you, you dickless piece of shit!” Will joined in, sensing Zeller’s relief as footsteps began running towards them, “why don’t you just..!”

“Hey! Break it up!”

Jack hurried in between them, reaching out to push Zeller back, and then Will.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Will hissed as Jack hesitated, “and _you_ ,” he pointed at Zeller, watching the man stare at him with a good approximation of anger, “just stay away from me.”

Behind them the rest of the staff stood staring, either in silence or muttering to one another, all eyes levelled at him. Will knew he wasn’t exactly liked, but the thoughts he picked up were nastier than he’d expected.

_Showing his true colours at last._

_Bout time someone stood up to that fucking witch._

_What was Crawford thinking, letting that thing in here?_

So long, it had been so long since he allowed himself to see the thick, black caustic bile that coated everything around him. Everything he touched, whether by hand or by mind, left him feeling violated somehow. Everything left him tainted by its involvement. _Left him feeling chipped away at, as if he were a rock waiting to crack open and crumble down to dust._ Sometimes he felt like he wouldn’t know when the last hit would come, the one that would cause the fault to rupture. Other times he didn’t think about it, because it was the only option left. The rest of the time he remembered why he had bought Wolf Trap in the first place.

Going back inside was as small a reprieve as he could manage. He strode back to his seat as Beverly finished setting up. When she joined him, sitting down slowly, he could feel her hesitancy.

“Just spit it out, would you?” he said dourly.

“Ok, for one I think I should scratch my hopes for any group harmony,” she said airily as they both listened to the ruckus from outside, “and two, you really should have kept the beard. Why the hell didn’t you tell me how young you are? I feel like your mother.”

“ _What?_ ” Will asked incredulously as he looked at her, blind-sided by the comment.

“You’re one of those guys that grows facial hair so they don’t get ID’d at clubs aren’t you,” she said sarcastically; when he looked at her like she had two heads she continued, “What are you, late twenties, early thirties?”

“Screw you too, what am I getting carded?” Will said incredulously, “I’ll be forty four in three months.”

“Are you kidding me?” she asked flatly. When he didn’t reply she sat up, staring, each word said with significance, “ _Shut_ _up_.”

“Yeah I get that a lot,” Will muttered as the rest of their colleagues poured in, “you gonna tell me what all this is about?” he asked, pointing to the projector.  
  
“I can’t believe you, you lucky sun of a bitch,” she muttered, shaking her head; when he gave her a look she took a breath and continued, “Registry sent a presentation, apparently. Something to do with how to talk to the press, how to avoid any incidents, keep the peace with the Unnaturals, etcetera. Now that we’re living in the media world with this case, and all.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Will said, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes.

It passed in a malaise of patronising, bureaucratic nonsense. Passive aggressively training them to put the Registry before themselves, put their work and caseload before citizens, but not in so many words. The same crap he’d been sold a hundred times whenever a story this big broke the news. Will barely watched it, instead noting that Jack had sat on Beverly’s left, and kept Zeller on the other side, furthest from Will. _Spying on what?_ He wondered. Part of him was tempted to try and glean the man’s meaning from him here and now, but the crowd made it difficult to focus, and a slip up could be devastating. Instead he slumped in his chair and waited.  
  
It was half way through when Will felt Beverly nudge him in the ribs. He sat up, frowning, but stalled on seeing her serious expression. Beyond her Jack was stony, silent. On noticing Will his eyes hardened and he nodded, typing something quickly and holding up the phone. Will was sure he knew what it would say even before he saw it.

_We’ve had the call._

Steeling himself, Will stood up with the rest of them and left the presentation, walking like a funeral procession out the swing doors.

* * *

  
“This too? Are you sure?” she held out her arm and allowed Hannibal to drape the dress over the rest of the clothes she had collected.

“And here I thought you were going to be angry if I didn’t lavish my credit card on your wardrobe,” Hannibal said as he abandoned a rail of overly showy skirts, flicking away the garish material.  
  
“Well, yeah, but I was just being a brat. Didn’t think you’d actually do it,” she said, looking at her haul.  
  
“There’s no harm in trying them all on,” Hannibal said casually as he scanned the shop, _allowing him to see his target as she prowled behind them, hiding in the clothing racks,_ “I’m sure there must be some young lady here who would help you. Ah! Excuse me miss?”

A tall, pretty shop assistant who was wearing just that little bit too much make up caught his eye, smiling as she approached on kitten heels.

“Hello, can I help? Oh my,” she said, trying to keep her smile as she noted Abigail’s atrocious clothing, “a change of wardrobe huh?”

“Necessary, as you can see,” Hannibal said offhandedly, “I would appreciate if you could assist in the changing rooms?”

“I can do it myself,” Abigail said, looking at him superciliously.

“And who will fetch you other sizes and such?” Hannibal overrode, making her sigh.

“Sure thing,” the shop assistant waited until they were done, plastering on her retail charm, “Changing rooms are right this way. You’re dad treating you, is he?”

“Oh, he’s not my dad,” Abigail said with a sly smile in Hannibal’s direction, “I only met him yesterday.”

The woman, quite rightly Hannibal thought even as he began to change his mind about her naiveté being the only thing that had attracted Will to her, looked alarmed. Hannibal merely smiled at her.

“My niece has a rather dry sense of humour,” he said, allowing the assistant to relax and laugh it off.

“You had me going there,” she said as she led Abigail into the women’s changing area.

“I’ll wait for you hear, darling,” Hannibal said with an edge to his voice that seemed to make Abigail pause.

“Yeah, whatever,” she shrugged, hurrying after the woman as she chattered on.

It was simple to do, so simple that it was almost boring. Abigail would be a while working her way through all those clothes, he thought, more than enough time to deal with their mutual problem. Taking off his heavy overcoat Hannibal hung it up on a tall rack, puffing out the shoulders with a coat hanger. Then he stalked back out into the shop, _keeping her in his peripheral_. He had chosen a nice, neutral blue for his suit today, with a barely discernable brown check and white shirt, _blue paisley tie to match_. A simple colour for blending in, as he walked to a rack of blue embroidered fleeces, next to a rack of blue cardigans, and behind them cagoules in shades of blue, moving through quickly enough that he could double back around the display and end up behind her as she rushed in to follow.  
  
A quick tap on her left shoulder and she let her guard down on her right, allowing him to slip her small purse down over her arm and collect her phone from her hand in one simple gesture. As she turned around, stepping back from him, her red curls bouncing, she looked like she might call out.

Hannibal lifted a finger to his lips and tutted, “Freddie, Freddie,” he said as he looked into her bag and raised his brows, lifting out a small pistol, testing the weight of it in his hand before dropping it back into the purse, “short for Frederica?”

She stayed silent, fuming; when she made to snatch her phone back Hannibal lifted it high, causing her to run into him. He caught her around the back, holding her close like a lover as she squirmed.

“Shall we look at them together?” he asked as he brought the phone down to eye level, but at arm’s length; as he tapped the lock screen came up, “if you would, Miss Lounds? Or should I call..?”

“ _No_...Seven, four, nine, eight, three, five,” she ground out, cutting off his threat.

“Much obliged,” he offered as he cycled through her photographs, _he and Will standing by the Lewis household,_ _a video of them talking about the case with appalling sound quality,_ _Abigail playing with Will’s eclectic mutts_ _in Wolf Trap_ _, Will leaving Lecter’s own front door,_ _the most recent a video_ _of Hannibal and Abigail shopping together,_ “this is most unethical, even for a tabloid journalist,” he said as moved to her settings and checked, “no back ups,” he noted, “rather risky.”

“I don’t...” she seemed to be looking for a way out even as she answered him, eyes scattering over the store, hands ready to push, legs ready to run, “keep back ups...easier to fake a source if you can prove you never took the shot.”

“Impressive,” Hannibal said as he began deleting the photographs and videos, one at a time, “but foolish,” once he was done he released her, moving away to stand just out of reach, “Who is your employer?” Hannibal asked, his tone smooth as silk.

“Jack Crawford,” she said, blinking in shock at her own words, “he...he asked me to keep tabs on Graham, where he goes, who he sees.”

Hannibal wasn’t surprised at all. Jack Crawford, the bulldog of Quantico, wouldn’t let his prize out without a leash with which to pull him back on. Yet still, there was something that didn’t sit quite right, like a warped object seen through a prism, no line matching up to the next exactly. He could make out what he was looking at, but as of yet not entirely see the hands that had made the image possible.

“Ah but an opportunistic entrepreneur like yourself wouldn’t limit your buyers to just one,” he said as he stalked in closer, taking her hand in his and smiling, “who else is in your little black book?”

That she didn’t answer, even though the muscles around her mouth twitched with the need to, was telling in itself. _Afraid, you are so very afraid._ Hannibal tilted his head down, staring into her blue-grey eyes, searching for the tell. _Afraid of the death that would come swiftly to you._ His fingers gently rubbed at her palm, thumb tracing the hairs on the back of her hand.

“I...” she resisted even as she fell down the rabbit hole, eyes glazing over, “don’t know who they were. I just got paid, sent the photos to an email address.”

“These photos?” he asked, indicating to the phone.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“I see,” Hannibal let go of her hand peremptorily; she snatched it back as if he had burned her, blinking her eyes and looking alarmed, while Hannibal set about dropping her phone back into her purse and clipping it closed. When she made to take it back from him he did not let go, watched her hesitate anxiously as they both held the bag together, her eyes glued to him intently, “I must impart on you the seriousness of this invasion of privacy. How should we go about that, Miss Lounds?” he asked as she began to look like a frightened rabbit realising the snare was already around her throat.

When Abigail returned, handing the things she wasn’t keen on to the assistant, holding the things she liked in her hands, she found Hannibal Lecter right where she had left him.

“Ready?” he asked her with a small smile, both of them heading to the check out, footsteps in time.

* * *

  
They were led into the city, back towards the centre of Baltimore. Will sat in the back, staring out the window, thumb nail in his mouth. No one talked, which he found rather disquieting. Of anyone he knew Will loved quiet more than most, but between others he found it unsettling. In the front Jack and Zeller seemed miles from them, and in the seat next to him Beverly was working quickly and strictly on her laptop, Jimmy on the far side doing something on his phone. When his own phone rang Will thanked his lucky stars that he wouldn’t have to spend the whole journey in torturous muteness.

“Graham,” he said succinctly.

“Um, hello. This is Milly, I don’t know if you remember...”

“Milly, yes, hello,” he sat up in his seat, “what can I do for you?”

“Actually, it’s more what I can do for you,” she said, “I asked around, like you wanted. Seems there have been more people than we realised gone missing.”

“How many?” Will asked, pulling out a pad and pen from his pocket, “Do you have their details?”

“Look...” she hesitated, sighing, “this isn’t just my neck on the line. I can’t give you any names.”

“Why not?” Will frowned.

“Because everyone we spoke to who has lost someone doesn’t want the past dug up around them. They didn’t report the deaths, ok? They just buried them and...you understand, don’t you? They are terrified the Registry will come looking into their business, find a reason to take them in. Look around, Will, they take people whenever they want, and they don’t need approval. The only reason I’m not in some Registry interrogation cell right now is because Mike was never a Grey-Pelt so they have no need to question me. I can thank him for that at least,” she said sadly.

“Wait, the people who are missing, they were all registered?” he frowned.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“But Mike wasn’t.”

“No, he wasn’t when he died. But he was when he was a kid. Changed his name after he ran away from home and started running with us.”

“What was his name before he changed it?” Will asked.

“What’s it matter?”

“Please, Milly, humour me.”

“It was Hanlon, Michael Rufus Hanlon. Please, I don’t think I can help any more than I have. I just wanted to let you know you were right, but I can’t give you names.”

“Ok. It’s ok I understand. Is there anything else you can give..?”

Then he stopped, blinking, like the floor had opened up and dropped him out into the void. _Suddenly, somewhere, a switch flipped and a burning light began to blind him._ When he heard Milly’s voice from the other end asking if he was still there he offered a quick, “yeah. Look I appreciate you calling. If you find anything else, let me know,” before hanging up.

Sitting back in his seat Will noticed Beverly was watching him.

“Anything useful?” Jack asked loudly fro the driver’s seat.

“Milly Grey-Pelt,” Will replied as he wrote the name ‘ _Hanlon’_ onto his notepad along with ‘ _Inman_ ’ and ‘ _Salome’_ and the rest of the victim surnames they knew of, _Hoit_ and _James_ , “Jessica Salome,” he said slowly, “she wasn’t married.”

“No, divorced,” Zeller offered, “why?”

“Did she keep the name?”

“What, her own name?”

“No, did she keep her husband’s name when she got divorced?” Will asked tightly.

“Oh, right, yeah she did.”

“What was her name? Her real name?” he asked fervently, making Beverly watch him close, as if seeing something building in him she couldn’t explain.

“I, uh, let me check...” Zeller said as he started to search.

“Irvine,” Jack called out, making Will flinch as he added it to the list, “why, Will? What are you getting at?”

He added it to the list and felt his mouth go dry. Could be coincidence, he tried to tell himself. It was a lousy lie. Underneath the names he scrawled _G-R to J-A_. Can’t be, can it? It’s too fucking obvious, but it makes no fucking sense, he thought to himself. By the time they arrived at St. Mary’s Park Will was jumpy and fraught.

The police waved them in through a throng of onlookers. The park itself was well kept and underwhelming, trimmed grass and ornamental trees. A strange place to dump a body. As Jack parked near a small fountain Will saw what they’d come for. He got out and walked towards the fountain, ringed by a small stone wall topped with black, spiked railings. There, impaled onto the mottled, blackened wrought iron stem of the fountain’s mouth through their back and up through their abdomen, their arms and legs dangling like a broken doll, was a female corpse. Will watched as the three CSI members that had arrived ahead of them moved around litigiously, collecting samples, taking photographs, processing logically. Everything made sense except one, glaring, inescapable fact.

Will thought he could feel his world shrinking down and down and down, _the case that had been so random and unpredictable now becoming gruesomely patterned._ No matter how long he stared, no matter how long he tried to convince himself he must be wrong about everything that was happening, the inverted face that stared up at him through sightless eyes was one he knew.

_Louise Hobbs looked more tortured in life than he saw her now in death._

“Oh god,” he managed to breathe out, closing his eyes tightly as the grief sank through him like a stone.

“Graham,” he could hear Jack call, “get kitted up before you go in.”

Will nodded slowly as if his movements were rehearsed, returning to the SUV to slip into his Tyvek, limbs listless. As their team joined the rest of the crew Will reached into the car where he had left his pen and paper, solemnly adding the name _Hobbs_ to the list that spoke a thousand words.

* * *

_  
Again. He tried again, a little deeper this time. Couldn’t help the hiss of pain that came, but resented himself for it. When he spoke he was almost amazed at the dullness in his voice, the lack of focus. He could barely hear himself over the barking from outside._

“ _Spiorad na foraoise, oscail mo shúile. Lig an veil a tharraingt ar leataobh.”_

_The blood flowed down his arm and fell in a series of random drips, each a different tone and frequency than the last. They joined their cousins in the circle, but no matter how long he waited, no matter how long he drew out the incantation, nothing ever happened._

“ _Biotáillí dorcha…biotáillí…” Will closed his eyes and fought through the wave of dizziness, “dorcha lig don…”_

 _Nothing ever happened. Casting his eyes around the dingy room, circle upon summoning circle etched into the wooden floorboards, each one a failed attempt, the runes he had drawn onto the walls, the herbs and animal parts he had strung from the ceiling to attract spirits. His house, drawn rust with his own blood, but_ she would not come. _She never came. Was it his punishment? He wondered if she would ever be that cruel. But then the only other option was unthinkable._

“ _Miriam,” he whispered as he fell forwards, catching himself against his hand, dropping the knife which skittered away across the floorboards, “please honey, talk to me. I need you to...”_

_He felt his head swim, chin fall to his chest. No energy to stop it. No energy even to weep any more for what he had done. The world was shrinking, shrinking; his vision blurred and then sharpened as he blinked. All he could see were the floorboards, the circle, his arm running red onto it all.  
  
“You want everything? I’ll give you everything. I can give it,” he murmured, rocking back and forth slowly, desperate words called up from memory, too far gone to regret his decision, “reaper an bháis, tabhair dom, tabhair dom, tabhair dom,” beneath his palm the blood pooled and warmed, “tógtha ó mo lámha le mo lámha, filleadh chugam, filleadh chugam, filleadh chugam,” he felt the burning then, as the blood hissed and spat, turning black, but the words did not stop and the pain did not stop and the curse fell from his mouth like leaves from a dead branch, crisped and withered, “le haghaidh...ár go deo.”_

_He didn’t remember collapsing to the floor, but he remembered the thing, sitting just at the edge of his vision, hand gripping her hair, grin fixed in place, eyes black and shining like obsidian. Would never forget the first time it spoke to him, the vibration in every fibre of his being as his mind dimmed and he passed beyond all thought; it’s lips moved and his relief at finding her at last was run through with terrible, terrible fear.  
  
She spoke and it broke him._

**IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU.**

* * *

  
It had been fifteen minutes since he’d pulled into the driveway. Still sitting, still holding the wheel as if he might change his mind and leave. A limbo he couldn’t understand how to break. If he never left would everything remain the same, unchanged? If he never left the truck would she never have to know?

That was how he was found, though Will was sure Lecter couldn’t know why he wouldn’t answer him as he knocked against the driver’s side window. Why he wouldn’t unlock the door or wind down the glass. Eventually the man succumbed to his helplessness and took a new tactic. When Lecter rounded the car and tried the passenger door he seemed, not so much surprised as interested that it was open. He climbed in like it was an invitation. Will stayed silent, thumbs running over the vinyl. They stayed that way, for longer than Will would later think it was.

“I don’t…” when he finally spoke Will was amazed by his voice; to his own ears he could barely recognise himself, “…I don’t deal well with this sort of thing. I can’t really…rationalise it, I think that’s…that might be why.”

The man in the passenger seat didn’t say anything. Will swallowed and sat back with a long sniff, puffing out his lungs before breathing out in a long, slow breath through rounded lips. Inside this truck, he thought, time could have stopped forever. Just us in here, nothing moving, all frozen in place. Closing his eyes and opening them did nothing.

When he looked to Lecter the man was watching him in his usual calm, assured manner. Will thought about what would happen if he screamed at the man this close, right in his face. Would he crack? Would the truth leak out of his eyes and ears like blood? Was he even real? Will shook his head and tried to reign himself in. When his thoughts spread like this, ran laterally from thought to thought, he knew things were slipping. He was slipping.

“Abigail’s…” he gagged on the next word, scrunching his eyes shut, lifting his right hand from the wheel only to slam it back against the vinyl hard, and again, and again, and again; he beat the wheel until his hand began to throb and the car rocked slightly as he threw his weight back and forth. When he ran out of energy Will found that he couldn’t scream, couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead the sound that scraped itself from his throat was guttural. The sound of an animal in pain. Leaning forwards he rested his forehead against the wheel and stared at the dull dials on his dashboard.

“Her mother, it was her mother. She’s been...she was taken, I mean, _fuck,_ ” Will closed his eyes and then opened them again, as if trying to wipe his reality from view, “her mother is dead. They killed her.”

No reply. Will turned his head and peered at the man to his right. Lecter was watching him, mouth sealed shut. Instead, his reply seemed to be the hand he had extended towards him. Will sat up, swallowing, staring at the hand. The moment passed in which Will felt like hitting the man, slapping him hard across that self-assured face of his. Then the rational part of his brain fought back control. You made him promise, Will reminded himself, promise he would never manipulate you again. Maybe this is just his way of showing it. Eventually he reached out and took it with his right, flinching a little at the pain as Lecter took his hand and held it gently.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said softly as he sat up, shaking his head, trying to smile but finding it lost in a grimace, “I don’t want to tell her. I can’t tell her.”

Across the back of his hand, a thumb dragging back and forth. So wonderfully, easily reassuring. Will brought up his left hand and covered his eyes, pressing his fingers against them until he saw stars.

“And I have to finish it today, there’s something…we need to do. It’s going to be awful and I don’t want to do it,” he could feel the tears against his fingers, trying to squeeze past, “I don’t want to hurt her and then hurt her again and then where does it _stop_?” the last word was lost in a sob, continuing through tears, “I don’t want her to hate me.”

The hand squeezed reassuringly. Will returned it, even though it hurt to do so.

“For crying out loud, would you just say something?” Will said, finding himself laughing through his sadness as if that would put the world back where it should be.

“As a psychiatrist I have had extensive training in grief counselling,” Lecter’s voice was a balm, and truthfully, at that point Will wouldn’t have cared if the man were bewitching him. He found it stranger still that he trusted the man not to be, “if you would like I can talk to her.”

Will rocked his head back and forth against the headrest, letting his hand fall into his lap, “No. No, I think I should. She’ll know it’s coming from me and she’ll resent me either way. If I do it through a third party it just makes me look like I don’t give a shit.”

“I understand.”

“Thanks,” Will allowed himself to revel in the touch, “I don’t know why you’re helping me. I know we don’t see eye to eye, and I know I’m an awful piece of shit most of the time, but thanks. Fuck,” he managed a smile, “now you’re going to have to train yourself to enjoy my constant appreciation as well as my apologies.”

“I feel it more prudent just to enjoy you as a whole, rather than break you into bite sized morsels,” Lecter returned his smile, “Abigail is a fierce girl, an independent girl, but she wears her heart on her sleeve. She came to you for a reason and I think you know that. I see you in her, as you see her in you. Come inside. I will make you both something to drink and you can do what you need to do.”

“I can’t do it here,” Will shook his head worriedly, “if it goes wrong she could...”

“It won’t,” Lecter said, such that Will thought he might believe it, “you won’t let it.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Will said wryly, frowning.

“Trust goes both ways, Will. You trust me. The least I can do is return it.”

* * *

_  
Jack Crawford hated driving into Baltimore almost as much as he hated being ignored by his subordinates. The traffic was offensively bad and his impatient nature always warred with being stuck in accordion traffic jams, speeding up, slowing down, speeding up again. When he finally saw the turn off for Wolf Trap he couldn’t help but exclaim it, as if saying it out loud would make it worth more._

“ _About damn time!” he said to himself as he indicated and pulled out sharply, forcing a honk from an oncoming motorist which he ignored blithely._

_He felt justified in his anger, considering he wouldn’t even be out here if it wasn’t for Will Graham. Anger was easier after all. Guilt didn’t suit Jack, never had. He felt it and he discarded it and usually all that was left was a filthy residue of anger. Something Jack liked to misplace onto anyone that got in his way._

_Today he was sure Will would get the worst of it, and later Jack would feel guilt seeping back in, but for now the thought of chewing Graham out for making Jack come all the way out to his little hovel just because the man wouldn’t pick up a phone was justified in his mind._

_The dogs were the first thing to give him pause. As Jack pulled up the mutts didn’t even take any notice of him, all paws scratching at the front door and mouths yapping incessantly. Maybe he’s out? Jack tried to justify the bizarre sight, but Will’s truck was in the driveway. Maybe he’s asleep, Jack tried to tell himself even as his slow walk had turned to a slow run to the door. All of his excuses fell short, considering he knew that Will loved his dogs like most people loved their own children. Would never leave them yammering at the door like this.  
The dogs parted for him as if he were the one they had been calling with their clamour._

“ _Will?” he shouted, banging on the front door loudly, “Will you in there?”_

_The anger turned guilt became panic. Rushing to the window but the curtains were drawn. Crawford would never call himself a strategic man but he knew when to follow his instincts without question. Will’s door was strong, solid wood, but luckily the frame didn’t hold as well. It took three good running blows and Jack knew he’d have one hell of a bruised arm once this was all over, but at that moment he couldn’t have cared less. When the door gave way, splintering in as the lock broke from the frame, Jack couldn’t help but cover his mouth and nose as the dogs ran in past him, hurrying through the house._

“ _Jesus,” was all he could say, staring in horror._

_It looked like a Grimm’s fairy tale, something you would read children to terrify them to sleep. Chalk had been used everywhere it could reach, some symbols he recognised, others he’d never even seen before. As he hurried inside he was forced to push away rabbits feet and dried sage and a host of other unknown things hanging in his face. But the worst part wasn’t what he didn’t recognise, but what he did. The summoning circles, four or five of them only just in the first room, and more everywhere he stepped; those used to contact the dead. And the smell, the smell and the colour everywhere; blood. So much god dammed blood._

_Following the dogs brought him where he needed to be. At first he wasn’t sure if he could stand it, the thought of it again._ Your fault, all your fucking fault, _he couldn’t help the thought as it screamed at him. Will was there on the floor, lying prone with his back to him. The thought of touching the man and finding him cold, dead, for a sickening moment it was too much to handle._

“ _Get a hold of yourself,” he said sternly, “get a hold of yourself, get a_ hold of yourself! _Will? Will for god’s sakes can you hear me?”_

_Rolling him over was like a confession, his arms a mess of criss-crossed cuts, his skin sallow and clammy, his hair flat and greasy. It seemed unconscionable that he had reached this state, Jack had seen him only two days ago. His clothes were spattered and smeared in red, but Jack ignored it best he could, fingers finding his neck and holding them there desperately._

“ _Come on, come on, please,” Jack muttered as the dogs pattered around him, whining, upset._

_When he caught the pulse the breath he let out was less a sigh of relief and more a testament to life, “Thank you,” he muttered as he fished his phone from his pocket and dialled nine-one-one, “just thank you.”_

* * *

  
She was dancing in her room, he caught sight of it reflected in the window as he reached the top of the stairs. Dancing around on the rug as she held clothes still on hangers up to her body and stared forwards, _Will suspected into a mirror._ It was difficult to continue, to bridge that gap between his world and her; _between reality and the fantasy_.

When he reached the open door he curled his right hand into a fist and tried to imagine he could feel Lecter’s reassuring grip there. He knocked twice, jerking her from her little world. Startled, she stared at him as if judging whether or not to be annoyed. She seemed to give up on the idea as she threw the dress she was holding onto her bed next to a pile of other clothes still with their tags on.

"You shaved," she smiled slyly.  
  
"Yeah," Will rubbed at his chin absently, "I guess I did."

"Any reason?" when she didn't get an answer she shrugged, “He took me shopping. You’ve got some well-heeled friends. How long have you known him anyway?”

“Not that long,” Will admitted, “but sometimes it feels like longer.”

“Yeah, well,” she grinned, “could be because he likes you. _L_ _ike_ likes you, you know. It’s weird, but I guess it’s kinda hot. He’s cute, right? For an older guy I mean,” she was babbling openly.

Will could barely bring himself to look at her easy happiness. _All he could see was Louise Hobbs’ face, frozen in death, her open throat like a split peach showing the grizzly stone of her oesophagus._ When he tuned back in she was saying his name. He blinked and breathed in, pulling his arms up around his abdomen.

“Are you ok?” she asked genuinely.

“No,” Will couldn’t lie to her, “but I don’t want you to worry about it.”

“...Has there been another?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” she said candidly.

“ _Abigail_ ,” he said without thinking.

“What? I’m allowed to swear about it, it’s horrible.”

“I...ok. I know. Look, I need you to get ready.”

“What for?”

“The third trial,” he said, hating each word.

“But...” she looked confused, then excited, “how? When did I pass the second one?”

“In the forest,” he told her, “you chose to stay on the path rather than abandon it in favour of your parents. Faith and acceptance. You’re ready.”  
  
“You’re sure?” she was smiling in amazement, “Oh my god. This is wild!”

“Please can you just get ready?” he asked tersely, “We need to do this now."

“Why?” she asked carefully.

“It’s a trinity. One trial every day for three days, that's how it works. Look, it’s not important why, it’s just important that we do, or the consequences will be worse than the trial itself.”

“Ok, ok, yeesh,” she rolled her eyes and it made his chest ache, “what do I need to do?”

 _Her skin as a canvass_ , Will wasn’t willing to make her remove all of her clothes. They managed to work around it, tucking her clothes up into her underwear to give him as much access as they could without making it uncomfortable in more ways than one. Lecter had allowed them use of the living room. As she closed the curtains, blocking out the winter sun, Will moved the couches back as far as they could go and pulled the coffee table back against the wall.

She lay down on her back on the rug like a supplicant. Opening the bag he had brought from his barn Will set about marking the boundaries, _salt in a circle around them both for protection, a lump of unrefined iron as the southern marker by her feet, steel at the north by her head. Will asked her to put both her hands out to either side, palms up. In her right he placed the antler felt of a young deer of the forest, in her left the bone of a dear dead of old age._ He pulled the tip off of the temporary marker and she closed her eyes as he opened the book, spine so worn and old that it stayed on the page without being held.

“Keep as still as you can,” he said, trying to sound calm, “and remember, you must come and find me. They will try and distract you, but it’s just tricks. Don’t let them pull you away. You’ll need to find me. I’ll be here for you.”

“What are you talking about?” she frowned.

“You’ll…know it when you see it,” he said, trying to have faith in his words, “I need you to be quiet now.”

The process was long and involved. _Copying the symbols as they appeared in the codex, following the natural ley lines in her skin, connecting each point to the next through words and runes written in dark ink._ _At her forehead he drew the alchemic symbol for copper, the same as the symbol for women._ _The line that led to her right wrist ending in a circle with a line extending up to the right,_ day. _The line that led to her left wrist ending in a circle with a line extending down to the left,_ night. _At her heart he penned_ _a capital V with curling edges,_ purify. _At her abdomen around her belly button a capital M and B that shared themselves back to back,_ the bath of Mary. _At her left foot a box crossed with a heavy X,_ month, _at her right two love hearts that joined at the points, cut through with a line_ , hour.

“Tickles,” she muttered as he drew on the soles of her feet, feeling her flinch.

“Quiet,” was all he could reply.

When he glanced at the clock it had been over two hours. His back ached and his legs felt numbed. Her thoughts came to him like calm waters over rock, rippling slowly. _She was cold, but it didn’t seem to matter. She felt heavy, not tired or sleepy, just heavy_. Will stared at her and felt his anxiety reach its peak without his consent. He managed to crawl to the lump of steel at her head, kneeling there.

It will work, he told himself over and over, this is going to work. She is strong, she is capable. She _will not fail_.

“Bandia, Tóg an ceann seo isteach i do airm,” he spoke as he slid on his gloves, breathing deep and regular to keep his rhythm in order, _so as not to panic,_ “Lig di a bheith athbheirthe i d’íomhá,” when he placed his hand over her mouth her eyes opened lazily, “Feicfidh sí le súile níos faide ná an veil,” when he put his hand over her nose and held it closed they opened further, wide enough that it seemed as if they screamed at him, “Fillfidh sí ar ais chugainn mar dhuine den Augur.”

She couldn’t move, he knew she couldn’t. It was good, he told himself as he felt her struggle as much as she was able, it meant the spell had taken. This was good, he told himself again and again as she let out muffled pleas, trying to cry out for help, wailing as she began to run out of air. He held tight and true, wishing he could close his own eyes as hers began to glaze over, her body began to still. _Deep breath in, deep breath out_. Will could feel the hysteria threatening to consume him, hovering above him like a vulture, waiting for him to show weakness. There is no room for error, he thought again and again, not for her. You need to be strong for her.

Lifting his hands away from her face, Will knew she was gone. His hands shook as he stripped the gloves quickly and touched her skin. Nothing. _Deep breath in, deep breath out_. Reaching forwards he placed his left palm over the symbol at her naval, feeling the flesh depress as he pushed against her. Closing his eyes, he held up his right hand and waited.

“Please, please, please,” he whispered over and over again, “please, please, please. _Find me_.”

* * *

_  
She sat up with a start, gasping.._

“ _Abigail! Goodness girl you gave me a fright!”_

“ _Mama,” she blinked, finding her there, sunlight in her blonde hair and a smile on her lips._

_It was wonderful to fall into her embrace. When she looked down she found she was in her bed, in her room. Her drawings on the walls. Her dresser with the blue wood stain she’d done with her dad, her wardrobe with the chip out of the door. Everything was there, so familiar, but her skin felt cold, icy. Her feet felt numbed, “I don’t feel well.”_

“ _Oh dear, my sweet little thing. You should stay in bed if you’re still not well,” her mother pulled back, reaching up to put a lock of hair behind Abigail’s ear, smiling, “can’t have you feeling bad for you dad getting home. He’s looking forward to seeing you.”_

“ _Dad?” she frowned, “Where is he?”_

_“He’s at work hun,” her mother said as if it were obvious, “now you rest here, ok?” she reached up to help her lie back, tucking her in, “You’ll be just fine here with us.”_

_And it was. It was just fine. So soft and warm,_ and she felt so cold and still. _She watched her mother stand up and leave the room, closing the door behind her with a smile._ Home, home, home _. It felt so wonderful to be home._

_Didn’t it?_

_Wonderful to be home._

_Abigail felt a niggle, something at the back of her neck, twitching._

_Wonderful to be home?_

_The niggle became an itch, scratching and irritating._

_Since when had it been wonderful to be home?_

_The itch became a burn, enough for her to sit up, trying to wipe it away, feeling panicked, confused._

_Why did I run away if it’s wonderful to be home?_

Please, please, please, please... _the words came from nowhere, whispered as if just behind her ear. Her panic only heightened._ _It was a struggle to get out of bed, her feet sluggish and slow_ _as she headed for the door_ _. Leaden. Everything looked so perfect, just as she remembered. Her photos around her mirror, stuck with blutack. Her rosettes on her cork-board in reds and blues. Each thing she noticed seemed to_ _detract her attention from the thing she’d been heading towards. What was it again? She thought, brain fogged._

_The door! Right, the door. It was there, right there in front of her. Her hand found it difficult to wrap around the handle but after a few goes she managed it. The door swung outwards and she stumbled with it, hands against the wall of the corridor. She dragged herself along, as if she were climbing instead of walking. Everything looked so perfect, enough that it went too far back into being bizarre, off somehow._

_The kitchen looked lit by Summer, all sunshine and pitchers of home made lemonade on the counter, motes of dust floating through the air. Her mother was humming to herself as she did the dishes from a lunch laid out on the table, sandwiches and corn muffins and coleslaw and sponge cakes._

“ _What are you doing up?” she was asked as her mother hurried towards her._

“ _I was hungry,” Abigail answered, suddenly finding herself at the table._

“ _Well there’s plenty to go around,” her mother smiled, “help yourself. Your father will be here any minute.”_

_And it was good. So delicious. She felt as if she hadn’t eaten in days, everything tasted so divine. With every mouthful she felt as if she were filling a hole in herself. The beef in the sandwiches was succulent and savoury. The cakes were soft and sweet. Before she knew it she had eaten half of everything that was there._

“ _Oh my gosh, I’m sorry mom,” she was giggling, the feeling coming back into her feet, her skin warming, “I was so hungry.”_

“ _That’s ok sweetie, I can make more.”_

“ _Never thought I would be such a-_ oh my god! What is that!”

_And there, in the corner, was a woman. At least she thought it was a woman. She was pale, pale as death, her blonde hair caked in dirt and blood. She was grinning, a horrible distorted grin. And even beneath her jacket Abigail could tell she only had one arm, could only see one hand, could see the emptiness in her other sleeve. Her mouth was moving, over and over and over._

Please, please, please, please, please.

_Abigail kept her hands over her mouth, horrified._

“ _What is it honey?” her mother was asking, “I don’t see anything there.”_

“ _You can’t see it?” Abigail looked to her mother, “It’s right there..!”_

_And on looking back it was gone. Nothing in the corner but sunshine and a small end table holding a potted fern. But the horror remained, like a smudging stain. Abigail took a gulping breath and stood up. You were going somewhere? Weren’t you going somewhere? She turned and headed for the front door, unsure why she was trying to leave, but unsure why she would want to stay._

_Then the door opened wide and in walked her father, carrying a braces of rabbits in his left hand, dangling like Christmas ornaments. He smiled at her as he thumped them down on the counter. The world seemed to light up like a set of string lights, sparkling, pushing all the shadows away._

“ _Abby, you feeling better?”_

“ _Dad!” she smiled, running into his arms._

“ _I know you wanted to come hunting with me, but I don’t like to see you ill. I’ll take you next time, ok?”  
  
“Ok dad, I’ll be good, I promise.”_

“ _I know you will,” her dad smiled down at her, “you’re my good girl. Well my, my look at all this? Louise, you’ve outdone yourself. Come on, let’s get something to eat...”_

_It was simple to take his hand, let him lead her back to the table. Was so easy to feel the warmth of the room envelop her, to feel the love and acceptance of her father as he smiled, placing his hand on her shoulder. Everything she had ever wanted, needed, deserved._

_Would have been so simple, if she hadn’t felt the pull. The need. The want to look back at the open door behind her._

_There, with the white glare of the sun obscuring everything, only one thing showed._

The hand, outstretched. Fingers curling slightly. And the words, over and over and over; please, please, please, please.

“ _Don’t touch it,” came her mother’s voice, worried._

_Abigail looked to her, frowning. Her father looked angry. She felt panic creeping up her spine._

“ _I won’t,” she said quickly, “I promise!” but her feet were pulling her closer._

“ _Why can’t you just do as you are told?” her father bit out through gritted teeth, “you inconsiderate girl!”_

“ _I wont, I swear, I won’t!” she pleaded._

“ _All just words,” her father said, quiet with anger as he stood up to remove his belt._

“ _No, daddy, please!” she begged, “Please I promise!”_

“ _Don’t touch it!” her mother said, louder._

“ _I won’t, I won’t, I promise, please, please, please!”_

Please, please, please, please…

_And the first lash caught her across the arm. She shrieked, curling away, tears in her eyes._

“ _You’ll obey and you’ll honour this family,” her father said with a righteousness she’d been born to obey, “or you’ll understand the consequences.”_

_The next she felt across her back, raising welts and scratches._

“ _Mama, mama please,” she was crying, “please help me!”_

“ _Don’t...touch..i-ghh,” the words dissolved to a horrible gurgle._

_And when she looked up she could do nothing but stare in horror. Her mother was there, but she was pale, skin clammy, her eyes nothing but milky opalescence, and there, at her throat, a slit wide enough to open and close with each word, sending churns of blood out down her neck, soaking her clothes. And in that moment she knew it was true, she knew her mother was dead. She knew it just as she now knew the lie of the room, the lie of the sunlight and the lie of this place. Her father had never beaten her, had never laid a finger on her. And her mother loved her, she always had._

_Her father raised the belt again and Abigail felt the hopelessness she had always felt, the ties holding her to this place, the need to try and try and try to make it work. Each one was being cut, slowly but surely, as she turned and ran, hand outstretched even as she felt arms and hands grasping at her hair, her clothes._

The hand reached for her and she reached back, feeling the chill in her fingers as they touched.

* * *

  
For him it was a mere minute and a half. He wasn’t sure how long it had been for her. In truth, at that moment, he couldn’t think about the minutia. _She passed through him like water, flowing back to the source._ All he could see was her alive, her struggling to sit up, gasping in breath after breath as if each one was her first.

“Thank you,” he said to no one, “ _thank you_. Abigail? Abigail, it’s alright,” he tried to calm her as she heaved in lungfuls of air, “you’re ok. Just breathe, nice and slow.”

When he reached out with a glass of water she lashed at him, knocking it from his grip. It flew against a couch and then fell to the floor, shattering. Will retreated, stung, but couldn’t blame her for anything that she did. Couldn’t imagine even trying. When she looked up at him her eyes went wide and she clamped her hands over her mouth, pointing at him.

“What is it?” she asked, panicked, “ _What is she?”_

“What are you talking about?” Will looked down at himself, over his shoulder, seeing nothing.

“Is she a demon like you?” she asked hysterically, “Are you both here to take me to hell? You killed me, I died and I went to heaven, only it wasn’t and they tormented me and I could feel everything,” when she looked down at her arm she balked on finding a mark there, _what looked like a lashing from something;_ she felt up her back, twisting her arm, and then let out a coughing sob, _“_ it was _real_. Oh god, oh please, all the wrongs I’ve ever done, everything is weighing down on me. I was in hell! I left my family, I left them for...for _this_. I’m damned,” she pulled at her clothes and tears fell without sound, “aren’t I.”

“You’re not damned Abigail, I promise you. I _promise_ you. I’m not going to lie and tell you it’s not scary, but I promise you’ll feel better soon and...” he ran out of the ability to make the situation better, unsure what to say, “you’ve been reborn. You’re purity knows no equal. You’re not going to hell.”

“Shut up!” she yelled, her eyes regaining their sharpness, darting about the room, “I saw my mom, she was _dead!_ She was dead and she was calling me, oh my god, _oh my god!_ You bastard, did you know!? Her throat…she was covered in blood, oh fuck, _oh fuck i_ s she _dead_?” she was crying now, shouting at him hysterically, her breaths coming in tortured wheezes; when Will nodded jerkily, unable to voice it, she screamed at him, over and over, _visceral, formless screaming that spoke more than words could,_ _tearing at her hair_ _like a moirologia_.

“You’re the worst person, you should be _ashamed_ of what you are! What you’ve done to me! Y-you are a liar! _No_ , don’t touch me!” she recoiled when he sat forwards, struggling to her feet, “Don’t ever come near me again!”

There was nothing he could do but watch her rush from the room. Nothing he could do but feel the pain, let it be a part of him, _absorb it like a wasp sting, every word, feel the poison drip down, spread out_.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered to no one, “I’m really sorry.”

A sound from the doorway to his left had his nerves dancing. His eyes darted to it, finding a silhouette there. Blinking made it clear, though in truth he wasn’t sure why he was so jumpy. It should have been obvious who he would find.

“Things have not gone to plan?” Lecter asked, standing poised like a statue.

“She…” Will found the words stuck in his throat, _nothing did it justice_ , “it’s never simple, it’s never pleasant,” he felt tears running down his face and knew whose hurt and pain it was that he channelled, “can you just, please she’s going to try and run. She’ll leave and she can’t. Please,” he begged, uncaring of pride or logic, “ _please_ don’t let her. It isn’t safe. Please, if there’s ever anything you would do for me without question, let it be this.”

When Lecter nodded Will felt the hairs on his arms, at his neck, _all over his body_ stand on end, like a wave of cold across his skin. He knew what he was asking for, and he knew what the man would do. _Why_ , he asked himself. Why would you ask it; because you know what might happen if she leaves now. Why does he make you feel this way? Why do you trust him?

He didn’t have an answer. Will looked to the shards of glass, catching what little light escaped from behind the heavy curtains, splitting it into a myriad of colours. Do you even want an answer? He asked himself solemnly. You always need to know everything, and look what it gets you. Nothing but ruin. Nothing but pain. Nothing but loneliness.

He set about picking up the large shards from the floor, careful of the sharp edges.

* * *

  
When he found her she was trying to open one of the small windows on the upper floor, above the portico. Quickly dressed in jeans and a hoodie, beneath what looked like Will’s own heavy jacket, the rest of the clothes he had bought her stuffed in the duffel bag slung across her shoulder, the marks on her skin were still visible at her hands and ankles where she had forgone socks clearly in favour of just stuffing her feet into her new sand shoes. He stood for a moment, watching her struggle with the old locks.

“I doubt they open,” he spoke, causing her to whirl around and glare, “though I admit I haven’t tried recently.”

Her face was a twisting panoply of anger and dark, intersecting lines and symbols. He did not react farther than a slow blink.

“Keep away from me,” she warned; at that he couldn’t help but smile.

“Is that a threat?”

“I’m dangerous,” she said, “I’m more dangerous than I look!”

“Oh?” Hannibal raised his brows, reaching into his jacket, “I see.”  
  
“I told you to back the fuck off!” she screamed, shaking, retreating.

“You will need money,” Lecter said, pulling out his wallet casually, “if you plan to run out onto the streets and fend for yourself.”  
  
Abigail stopped short, duffel bag clutched in her hands, and turned, eyes streaming but face set. She watched him hesitantly as he opened the leather and began thumbing out note after note. Once he was done, a fair stack of notes in his hand, he offered it to her. When she continued to stare at him doubtfully, hesitant, he extended his arm further and tipped his head slightly.

“You won’t get far without it.”

“Why are you helping me?” she asked, tone flat.

“Why are you running?” he asked, tone soft and curious.

“Because I’m done being used by people,” she spat, eyes blinking, a frown at her forehead as if she didn’t know why she’d spurted out the truth.

“Then this should help, shouldn’t it?” he said, nodding to the bills in his hand.

It was pleasant, at this crucial moment, that she was such a predictable creature. When she lunged forwards to grab the money he let her, only to take her hand with his own, closing over her hand fisted with money with his own two hands, capturing her eyes.

“I wish you well, Abigail Hobbs,” he said softly, “we will miss you.”

“Miss me? Why would either of _you_ miss me,” she hissed, though she didn’t seem to notice that she wasn’t fighting him.

“Because Will loves you like the daughter he can never have,” he said truthfully, “and I love him in a way you will never understand.”

Her eyes were glassy, cracked with bloodshot lines. She watched him dutifully as he rubbed at the skin of her hand gently, over and over. Hannibal smiled at her, even as she broke down, dropping her duffel bag to the ground with a thump. When she ran into his arms, weeping softly, muttering words against his chest that he couldn’t quite make out, he held her like an offering. The money fell to the ground between them like withered rose petals while Hannibal offered sweet nonsense to calm her nerves, _‘it is alright to cry, it is good to let it out. Everything will be alright now, everything will be fine, we will look after you,’_ while stroking her long, dark hair.

It was simple to put his hand into the deep pocket of her jacket, finding a small flip note pad there, mainly empty of pages. Never one to miss an opportunity, he took his chance now. _Will kept all of his belongings in his room, and he wasn’t willing to risk snooping in case the man had wards set up that he wasn’t able to detect._ Not worth ruining all of his good work so far, but now, presented with an easy fix, Hannibal was quick to take it.

He held the pad up to his eye level behind Abigail’s head while he continued to console her, finding a scrawled note on the first page. A list of names, some of which he recognised, some of which he did not; they were not of any interest to him. The last note, however.

 _G-R to J-A_.

Hannibal couldn’t help but smile. _Oh so wonderfully clever,_ he thought to himself as he slipped the notepad back into the pocket, _such wondrous ways your mind views the world, my darling._

It took a few more minutes, but he waited patiently. At the bottom of the stairs Hannibal watched him walk into view, creeping carefully so as not to make a sound. Cautious, flighty, intuitive, more so than the girl he held in his arms. Will Graham stared up at them both with eyes clouded by relief. When he nodded to Hannibal in a thanks that it didn’t seem possible for him to express in words, Hannibal nodded in return.

* * *

  
He should stop checking, he knew he should, but it was difficult to believe. Standing at her door, cracked open only by a slit, he stared at what he could see of Abigail’s face beneath the covers. Sleeping so soundly that it amazed him. It was the third time he’d done so that night, and every time he had braced himself to find the bed empty. Letting out a soft sigh Will closed the door gently, resting his head against it.

He couldn’t wait to tell Hannah the good news, to redeem himself. Not that she had ever expected him to, asked him to, but he knew it was a bone of contention between them. The last time he had tried to complete their coven it had gone so horribly wrong. Now he was whole, now he had completed the circle, and Abigail was safe. Things were...getting better, he told himself. He felt capable, he felt, dare he say it, optimistic about the future. This time he would stop this vicious cycle of murder, he would make things right, he would _avenge_ her.

When he turned back towards the landing he thought he might have seen her in the corner of his eye, _a fleeting spectre in the dark._ Instead, when he looked closely, it was nothing but a door left ajar. Will frowned, pausing as he returned to his room. Had that door always been open? He hadn’t noticed it the other two times he’d been up to obsessively check on his new apprentice. The slim view into the room beyond was intriguing, even to his sleep addled mind. Drew him closer and closer, until he was pushing the door open.

At first he was sure the man was asleep, lying still and prone on his back, the covers drawn up to his neck. Will didn’t really remember stepping inside, but he knew he couldn’t blame anyone but himself as he closed the door behind him. Walking forwards slowly, across the shadowed rug beneath his bare feet, he could feel his heart beating in his chest. What are you _doing?_ he asked himself madly. What the hell do you think you’re doing?

His feet stopped at the edge of the bed, _stopped stock still_. Staring down at the man on the opposite side, mostly obscured by the gloom, only a vague outline of nose and cheekbones. What do you see? Will thought to himself, his skin prickling, but not with chill. An abstruseness verging on disturbing, but a quality so soothing and regal that it wiped away his doubts and his fears. Enough to make him doubtful all over again.

When Hannibal reached an arm out beneath the covers, pulling them back on Will's side of the bed, Will started badly but didn’t run. He thought he could see eyes opening, a slight catch of light against the dark.

“I’m not...I didn’t mean to…” he muttered out.

There was no reply. Will grit his teeth and shook his head, hating that he had to give the man credit. _You’re the one standing over him as he fucking sleeps,_ he reminded himself dryly, _and he’s honourable enough not to seduce you into his bed._ You’ve done all of that work for him, it seems. Will found himself stuck fast, hands wrapped around his abdomen, holding himself close. Lecter did not speak, but Will could feel his eyes watching him. _Like hands against his skin._

When he slipped into the bed there was no stopping it, he knew that now. No more lying to himself about what he was and wasn’t allowed, about principals he held himself to for no reason other than he had been sure there would be no opportunity to break them.

 _You at least deserve to find someone that can make you happy_ ; he thought he could hear the words as if whispered against his ear, the memory of her voice making his will weaken. Lecter didn’t stop him as Will curled against his side, face against the man’s chest, _warm skin against warm skin,_ just pulled the duvet up around Will’s body before laying his arm around his back, holding him gently. It was surreal somehow, like he thought he might have to wake up at any moment. With every breath Lecter took Will felt his face rise marginally, then fall. There was a pause, then a feeling of Lecter moving his head to the side, and his chest rose high as he pulled in a long, deep breath; letting it out tickled through his curls, against his scalp.

It took a few seconds to comprehend, but Will was sure it wasn’t how he had expected this to go. And how did you? He asked himself even as he opened his mouth to ask,

“Did you just... _smell_ me?” utterly unimpressed.

“Difficult to avoid, actually,” Hannibal’s voice resonated through his chest and his eardrum, causing an odd disconnect that made Will question who was asking who why they were really there, “I really must introduce you to a finer aftershave. That smells like something with a ship on the bottle.”

His laugh wasn’t a laugh in the truest sense, more a way to let the frenzy leave his body without making the scene that his nerves wanted him to _, push away, run, stop this before it went any further because without his solitude Will didn’t know what the next step was._ Everything was unknown territory from here on out. It didn’t take as long as he’d expected it would to make the decision.

“Blame Alana. I keep getting it for Christmas,” Will admitted, his left hand slipping out across _skin run through with hair beneath his palm;_ Lecter didn’t protest his exploration.

“I will need to impose a moratorium in relation to gift giving.”

As a hand appeared in his hair Will felt his breathing even out, his muscles relax. Closing his eyes didn’t numb the feelings, it seemed to make each touch, each connection of skin against skin, _more_ somehow. Beneath his palm he thought he felt a heartbeat that was not his own, lulling him to a sleep from which he would awake having not remembered the dreams it brought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Spiorad na foraoise, oscail mo shúile. Lig an veil a tharraingt ar leataobh. Biotáillí dorcha...biotáillí...dorcha lig don"  
> 'Spirit of the the forest, open my eyes. Let the veil be drawn aside. Dark spirits...spirits...let this one'
> 
> "reaper an bháis, tabhair dom, tabhair dom, tabhair dom  
> tógtha ó mo lámha le mo lámha, filleadh chugam, filleadh chugam, filleadh chugam  
> le haghaidh ár go deo"  
> 'reaper of death, give to me, give to me, give to me  
> taken from my hands by my hands, return to me, return to me, return to me  
> for our forever'
> 
> "Bandia, Tóg an ceann seo isteach i do airm. Lig di a bheith athbheirthe i d’íomhá"  
> 'Goddess, Take this one into your arms. Let her be reborn in your image'
> 
> "Feicfidh sí le súile níos faide ná an veil. Fillfidh sí ar ais chugainn mar dhuine den Augur"  
> 'She will see with eyes beyond the veil. She will return to us as a being of the Augur'


	8. Rusted Lock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who has reviewed or left Kudos, it's been super encouraging to get support for this story during the short hiatus on posting. Apologies for the dealy in this chapter, it's been a busy few months! Enjoy

_Like crisp, new snow.  
  
_He did not dream.  
_  
Feet treading,_ _leaving temporary marks._  
  
So very long since he had.  
  
_Shifting, one into the other, seamless._  
  
That was how he thought of it. So long now since he had considered the act of dreaming, having no control.  
_  
Practice made perfect_.  
  
His velvet darkness, a palace beyond all knowledge. It was soft, smooth, but rumpled up beneath eager fingers as he gripped and pulled away the veil, giving way to a playground of wants and desires and secrets. He wrapped it around himself, swaddling-like, holding him encased and safe as his mind wandered along pathways above human understanding, opening doors into the lives of those around him. Slinking between, _those sleeping brains trying desperately to unpack the day’s events while their bodies lay like_ _mortician’s_ _meat upon_ _their_ _slabs_ , tiptoeing through, _enemy camps like a shadow on the wall, watching,_ _whispering_ _, waiting._

It had been years beyond count now since he’d first realised that when he fell asleep he visited a place unique from all others. A skill that had come naturally rather than taught, complimenting his agile mind and, as Will had so delightfully put it, his silver tongue. As a wartime orphan's needs outweighed morality, and as needs grew so morality lessened; enough that it became questionable that it had ever existed. People were such banal creatures, he discovered, so easily led like donkeys following an elusive carrot over a cliff. _All it took was_ _m_ _urmuring_ _softly, lips against_ _the cocoon_ , _and then the patience to wait and see what came out when the skin peeled away._  
  
His aunt and uncle had been his first great success, so long ago now, such a chasm of time between them. _She had taught him origami, he remembered her hands were lily white and her hair jet blac_ _k._ _H_ _is uncle_ _had been meek but kind, stately but ineffectual._ One couple in a line of many; they were the closest to what he might have called a family. _Like t_ _he remnants of the fire after burning,_ _embers now being fanned into tiny, wavering flames by the man in his bed and the girl he had brought with him._ Their little family of orphans was growing, and Abigail was one parent away from slotting into place. There was a poetry to that which he couldn’t yet explain, and perhaps was not yet meant to. _  
__  
Time_ _ran_ _forwards, ever forwards._ For him, time was elastic, stretched out thin and pliable. In his palace of the mind he could visit any moment he pleased. For now, however, it seemed prudent to stay in the present. _  
_  
Now, here, the thoughts of the girl were strong, invasive, lingering like the smell of the jasmine flowers his aunt had grown beneath her bedroom window. It was why he knew he would go to her first, and why he knew he’d find exactly what he expected. _The doorway opened onto_ _an average driveway_ _that led to an_ _average house_ _which led to_ _an average family unit_ _seated around a table_ _._ Abigail was dreaming of her far-away-home as if it could bring the solace she needed. Mother, father and daughter bathed in the rosy glow of nostalgia and necessity, tinged blue by loss and grief. Her raw emotion drew those around her with disgusting regularity, like flies on excrement. She would be a simple but unpredictable tool, _something of a jigsaw piece with the sides peeling._ That was what he told himself.

When it was time to move on he felt the tingle of excitement fizzing in his spine. Something he had come to anticipate, look forward to at the end of each day. _Stepping into the mind of a man whose very existence he was still coming to terms with._ And yet on stepping out of one realm into the other he had expected _grass and trees and the furore of the forest_. Instead there was familiarity, enough that it amazed him as to its intricacy and attention to detail.  
  
Peering in through a door left ajar before him, Will Graham had been able to recreate Hannibal’s own kitchen down to the layout of his furniture, the patten of his floor tiles and the knots in the wooden counter tops. It was wondrous. Yet as he marvelled at the dreamscape, a sound distracted him from his reverie. _Wailing, like an animal calling out in pain._ _It drew him like a siren._ Touching the kitchen door made the hinges squeal slightly, enough to give him pause. In reality his hinges did not squeal, _but in Will Graham’s mind_ _t_ _he_ _y did._ An intricately created ward _,_ an alarm of his own making _._ Even asleep, Graham was a formidable opponent.

The sound continued and now, as he pushed inside, it became clear that he had misinterpreted. Not an animal crying in the night. _A child, an infant, wailing._ Hannibal lifted his chin minutely, eyes narrowing. The sound was familiar. The illusion groped at him blindly, desperately; it felt sour and miserable. He wished it didn’t affect him so. That it did spoke volumes he was not willing to read.  
  
The man he expected to find was standing in the centre of the room, stock still, facing away towards the far wall. In the gloom it was difficult to make him out, as if he were merely a sheen, catching the light in flickers. _The air was thick and heavy, hot and humid, enough to imagine it beading against his skin._ Stalking closer Hannibal stayed silent, instead reaching out with careful fingers. Graham was a subtle smudge against the dim background, but Hannibal liked to think he could see him as clearly as others refused to. _A mirror image, twisting as the_ _looking glass_ _warped._ His hand came closer and closer, until he as sure he could feel the cloth against the pads of his fingertips.

Only his hand never made contact. As he neared, Will’s skin seemed to flicker, a familiar buzzing flutter of wings accompanying the action. Hannibal stalled, watching intently as he tried once more. This time he could see it, _as if it were day._ Wings. Large, dark wings encasing the man before him, shrouding him from sight. A thin, impenetrable layer of moths, flocked across Will’s being like velvet; every time Hannibal tried to draw near they would flicker like bees in a hive, dancing so as to confuse the predators that came for the sweet honey treat inside.

 _A memory, so intrinsic to them both that it sat deep, dark and hidden behind veil upon veil of distractions made to keep the mind blind to a trauma from which it could not recover .  
_  
Circling the man allowed Hannibal time to wonder if Will knew where his dreams led him, their significance, or if it was merely a haunting. A projection of memories lost to the conscious mind. As they came face to face the wailing grew to an intensity most would not be able to bear. He bore it like a penance. He bore it like an expectant parent. He bore it.

He was faced with eyes white as marble, mouth gaping as the sound grew and grew; it was not Will as he knew him. It was simple to reach up and dismiss the Creature with a heavy backhand that never connected, _the moths scattered in an explosive flurry of bat like wings, a living cloud of smoke._ And in its place the baby…

There was no time to see it, never mind avoid the attack. What he saw of the infant was its open mouth, screaming, its small arms huddled against its skin, and the small felted nubs barely protruding. He felt as if it were the space of a single breath in, watching the child be revealed, before he heard the sound of hooves and the force hit. Charging out of the flurry of moths the proud rack of antlers speared his arms, his chest, his face, crashing him into the wall. _And there, in the micro moments before waking, he had time to feel complete and utter surprise._

**The great black stag pawed the ground and let out a rumbling snort.**

Startling sunlight in his eyes, forcing them to a squint. Blinking didn’t help, instead showing him only his own hand reaching out before his eyes towards the ceiling. _It had been some time since he had encountered such lucid defences, though he doubted Will was aware of them._ He let his hand fall and cleared his throat as he adjusted to the waking world. _Allowing his body to understand that there was no trauma to his flesh, no_ _bone piercing his skin._ Everything was calm and quiet as he turned his head...only then realising with a frown that something was missing. Something that made less and less sense the more awake he became. _No weight against his chest, no skin beneath his hand as he reached out across the bed._

Will was gone. Donning his robe Hannibal walked to the room opposite his on the landing and pushed open the door; _no one, bed untouched._ Staring at it didn’t seem to help his predicament, as his mind continued to wonder; _how?_ Sounds from downstairs caught his attention, sharp and clanging. A hint of voices. Working his way down allowed a small amount of time to try and collect his thoughts before he was faced with a truth he wasn’t sure how to explain.

The kitchen was warm and humming, a savoury sweet scent perfuming the air. Upon his butcher’s block perched Abigail, hunched over like a gargoyle with her phone in her hands, staring at it avidly. At his oven stood Will, opening the door to pull out what appeared to be a surprisingly well risen Dutch baby in his favourite cast iron pan.  
  
And he was delightfully, amazingly, tantalisingly _awake._

* * *

“Hope you don’t mind,” Will said, unable to sound entirely contrite, “it was getting pretty late and I have to go in again soon. Thought I’d put myself to work in the kitchen.”

“Not at all,” Hannibal, standing in the doorway looking only half awake appeared perplexed enough to make Will wonder if the man had ever walked into his kitchen to find someone else making him breakfast; blinking as Will put the pan down on a cork mat he continued as if by rote, “Abigail, would you set the table please.”

When the girl didn’t even acknowledge that anyone had spoken Will wished he had the confidence to call her out. Wished he wasn’t so close to the problem that he was sure he would only make it worse. Thankfully, Lecter didn’t seem to have that issue.

“Young lady,” he said with just the piquant amount of sternness; her eyes looked up from under the dark fall of hair, holding the man’s stare before looking away as she slumped down to the floor and began raking through cupboards, “third from the left, on the middle shelf. And cutlery, in the drawer beneath the toaster.”

Will stayed quiet as Abigail moved around behind him. Once she was gone with a rattle of forks and a clink of plates he would admit he felt a relief that showed in his slumping shoulders, a deep inhale with eyes closed, a long exhale. It didn’t help that he’d woken with a raging headache that was continuing to plague him. Opening his eyes he knew that Lecter was watching him, even if he’d moved out of sight to a low cupboard behind the tall fridge. _A weird sense of hyper-awar_ _eness he always had around the man._

“Do you have any icing sugar?” Will asked as a distraction from the misery bouncing around his head like a hot marble.

As Hannibal emerged from the cupboard already holding a mason jar of white powder, Will felt like a kid again. _Cooking with_ _Matron_ _Hannah, marvelling as she moved around the kitchen with purpose and flare, him and his sisters all working in unison like a little colony of bees grating and chopping and frying and tasting and setting tables._ Every meal had been an event in their house, and every move had been anticipated like an unspoken telepathy. It had been the one time Will felt his gift didn’t hinder him but instead merely melted away into the natural rhythm of collaboration.  
  
The thought came with a bittersweet edge; he had tried to phone Hannah that morning but got no reply, which was odd because the old bat always got up early as the dawn. He was sure she’d call back when she saw she’d missed him.

“You have some tricks up your sleeve, Agent Graham,” Lecter said as he handed over the powdered sugar, reaching out to flick the crust with a satisfyingly sharp noise.

“Consultant,” Will corrected him, unable to stop the smile that quirked his lips, “and you don’t get raised as a good southern boy without picking up some cooking skills.”

“So I’m lucky not to be served grillades and grits?”

“Please,” Will smirked, voice taking on a southern lilt that he had spent years training himself not to show, “my Matron is a Louisiana witch. You’re lucky I didn’t serve you pie on the griddle to go with. I’m just going to take it to the table like this.”

“There are strawberries,” Lecter said, gesturing with his hand for Will to go ahead, “I shall fetch them.”

They ate in silence, but not enough to bother him. There was something so surreally domestic about it that Will couldn’t help but soak it in, absorb it like a memory he might cherish later when all of this inevitably fell apart. A flash frame of a life he’d only heard about in fairy tales.

Abigail left the table first, muttering something under her breath that he couldn’t catch, and Will had automatically made to go after her. It was the soft hand upon his that stopped him with a jerk of surprise. Sitting back down slowly Will looked at the gentle touch, then up to Lecter who was staring at the door through which Abigail had fled. On turning his eyes to Will’s he removed his hand easily, as if the whole action had been utterly and simply normal. Will wondered if he would ever get used to it.

“She will need time to process her grief,” Lecter said as Will blinked rapidly, swallowing, “any contact at this moment will draw serious associative bonds. You must be careful not to tie yourself to anything inconsolable.”

“I think it might be a bit late for that,” Will said through a tight jaw, wiping his mouth on a napkin and sitting back in his chair, movements twitchy, appetite gone; neither spoke, but Lecter continued to finish his plate. Will watched him with subtle appreciation which he was sure wasn’t as subtle as he thought it was. _You should know better than this by now_ , he thought to himself. But then Will had built his life around refusing to listen to advice. He wondered when Hannibal might notice that fact, “want any more?”

“Thank you, but I think my waistline would suffer for another portion,” Lecter politely declined.

“I don’t know, it looked fine last night,” Will quipped, stretching his arms above his head.

It was difficult to read Lecter’s expressions, _so subtle in its changes that from time to time he missed the miniscule quirks that gave him away_ , but this time he caught the glint in the man’s eye. _Predatory_. And then gone with a blink. Will found himself pulling his bottom lip into his mouth to run his teeth over the flesh. Fucking hell, he thought as he looked away, sometimes even you buy your own bullshit, don’t you.

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be,” Will said, offhandedly, staring down as he picked at something on the tablecloth.

“How odd,” Lecter paused as he wiped at his face with a heavy napkin, “until mere minutes ago I barely noticed the very slight southern lilt to your vowels.”  
  
“Not many people do,” Will cleared his throat and tried unsuccessfully to keep the wry twist from his voice.  
  
“Now it is all that I can hear. May I ask why you decided to hide your southern upbringing?”  
  
“I don’t hide my southern upbringing,” Will said pointedly, “I just find that my accent doesn’t...fit very well in my position.”

“To obvious, you mean?” Lecter asked as he sipped his coffee; Will felt himself bristling slightly and couldn’t tell exactly where the reaction had come from.  
  
“What? Because I’m from the south then I’m clearly an unnatural? Didn’t think you bought into stereotypes, doctor.”  
  
“Only for those that believe in such nonsensical folly,” Lecter said, pulling Will’s mood back again, whiplashed in the other direction straight into contrite and appreciative, “ some believe that the accent is a timeline, leading back to our parents.”  
  
“Wouldn’t be like that for us though, would it,” Will needled.  
  
“Not for us,” Lecter inclined his head, “but then if we do not have an origin in our parental tongue, are we linguistic orphans? Do you think that your accent perhaps did not represent you truthfully.”

“I didn’t say that.”  
  
“You did not have to.”

“Oh yeah? Then what’s your excuse?” Will bit back, feeling meddled with.  
  
Lecter hesitated for a moment before blinking twice. They stared at each other intently. Will refused to back down, _even as he drowned in the feeling of falling that always seemed to accompany Lecter’s unbroken stares, a sense of timelessness._  
  
“Heaven forbid I would understand what you mean by that,” Lecter said finally as he picked up Will’s plate and placed it on his own before piling their cutlery atop the stack.  
  
“First I thought you might be Scandinavian, but the phonetic framework doesn’t quite fit,” Will mused, enjoying the ever so subtle hint of danger quivering around Lecter’s form now that he was in the spotlight, _like a shadow wary of the sun_ , “there’s a Netherlands lisp in there, right? Along with some weird glottal stops, like Scottish. Finnish, maybe? And French, some of your vowels are definitely French, but there’s more that I can’t quite wrap my head around. Makes me wonder,” Will sipped at his coffee before asking, “where are you from exactly?”  
  
A look that would have cut glass were it not distractedly impressed, Lecter answered plainly but with expert evasion, “Lots of different places.”  
  
“Oh,” Will said facetiously, “I see.”  
  
“Drawback of being an army brat,” Lecter said, closing the subject a little too quickly, “After I was orphaned I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle. We travelled with impunity. My formative years were spent crossing borders, and thus my accent is something of a Frankenstein.”  
  
“Frankenstein was the doctor,” Will said, watching Lecter pointedly, “I think you meant to say his monster.”  
  
“How aptly pedantic of you Will,” Lecter said airily, “I am learning something new of your every hour.”  
  
“Huh,” Will huffed out, _sensing a lie but_ _still_ _unsure of the what and the why_ , “I guess neither of us are who we say we are.”  
  
“I suppose not,” Lecter said, once more the polished, untouchable gentleman as he rose with their plates and took them to the counter.

It was as he placed his coffee down upon the table top that he realised it; _not once since he and Lecter had begun their little sparring match after Abigail left the table had Will taken a moment to feel guilty or upset_ _about his new charge_ _._ Licking his lips, Will wondered if this was yet another preternatural talent that the good doctor possessed...or if it was simply a bi-product of his natural charm . To be fair, he wasn’t sure he could truly tell the difference any more. When his phone started ringing in his pocket Will silently thanked it’s good timing, _answering gave him no further time to reflect on his own misgivings._

“Graham,” he answered neutrally.

“About time,” Jack answered with an entitled, easy anger that made Will’s hackles rise, “where the hell are you?”

“Having breakfast like a civilised human being. It’s only a quarter past seven.”

“I want you in, now. We have an ID on our Jane Doe. Name’s Louise Hobbs.”

And there it was, the one thing he had been fearing to hear. _Louise Hobbs’ death, haunting them still, reaching out to try and clutch at her daughter with spectral fingers._ From here on out things would get tricky. Will cleared his throat and did his best.

“Well that’s something at least. Is the coroner done with her?”

There was a pause, one Will didn’t appreciate, “Asking for your turn?”

“Yes, I’m asking for my turn,” Will replied flatly.

“And I’ll reiterate, in case you didn’t hear me the first time. I don’t want you anywhere near the morgue, understand?”

“Jack…”

“Don’t Jack me, I mean it. You and Mrs. Hobbs won’t be making each other’s acquaintance. You can read the coroner’s report and the test results. I want you and Zeller out to her house, track down the seal.”  
  
“ I had something else I wanted to follow up today,” Will argued, thinking of the possibility of a clue Molly Grey-Pelt had unwittingly offered him the day before, _GR-JA._  
  
“Yeah, well put that shit on the back burner and do what you’re told,” Jack said easily, “This woman, Hobbs, she has a family. When you find them pass along my condolences.”

The bottom of his world was juddering loose, _ready to fall_.

“She had a family?” it was no challenge to sound distressed.

“Husband and daughter. Unregistered.”

“She might not be an unnatural,” Will said a little too eagerly, biting his tongue.  
  
“Pretty low chance of that. What’s it matter anyway? Registry will still want them both in for examination.”  
  
“Right,” Will sighed, “sure.”

“What, no diatribe?” Jack goaded.

“I’m tired, Jack. I have a splitting fucking headache and I’m _tired_ , alright?”

“You’re not special. No one takes this job to have a good time. I want you in here within the hour.”

Fumbling with the phone Will hung up quickly, mainly because he knew Jack was leading up to doing it himself for emphasis and he wanted to beat him to the punch. Small victories, but he’d take them where he could get them. When something was put down next to him on the table Will realised he’d been staring into space. He picked up the small pack of ibuprofen, keeping Lecter in his peripheral as the man set about filling the dishwasher.

“Thanks,” he said softly, returning the phone to his pocket.

“I find it’s always useful to keep a stocked pill cabinet,” Lecter said as he put his skillet in the sink, filling it with water to soak, “do you get them often?”

“What headaches? No more than normal,” Will shrugged as he fished the blister pack out, popping two white capsules before tossing them into his mouth and downing the last of his coffee, now lukewarm and dismal, “just woke up with it, that’s all.”

“You slept badly?”

“Actually,” Will let out a soft chuff of air through his nose, “I slept great,” then, as Lecter opened his mouth to continue Will beat him to the punch, “I have...something I need to ask of you.”

Eyes on him; he felt examined. Not that it wasn’t to be expected, _it was the_ _Lecter_ _’s job to watch every movement_ _he_ _made and evaluate his health_ , but this was...different. He felt like a bug in a jar. And it was true, _he avoided being near people who sought to analyse him, even as he was drawn to them_ _for their warped sense of mutual understanding_ _;_ Lecter’s own admission of it didn’t help. The doubt hung over his head, Damoclean. Jack had never hidden it, with Alana he’d never been sure, but with Lecter…

“They have ID’d Louise Hobbs,” Hannibal said, making Will startle, closing his mouth.

“You knew? Did Jack..?” he asked, frowning as he pushed away from the table, chair scraping the floor unpleasantly, and stood.

“An educated guess. And you are going to ask me to stay quiet about Abigail.”

“Ok now you’re just taking the piss,” Will said sourly, “this isn’t a joke.”

“I am not laughing.”

“On the outside,” Will rebutted, eyes narrowed, “I wouldn’t have thought I’d have to remind you that strangers don’t have expectations of each other.”

“I don’t consider you a stranger…”

“Well you should,” Will butted in, taking a step forwards, his tone cutting, “because that would be only _polite_.”

There had been something vindicating about putting him in his place. Every perfect, intricate, powerful fibre of the man’s being seemed to mock Will’s own under-confidence, his desire to feel as indestructible as Lecter purported himself to be. And yet, even as he congratulated himself for his conviction, he felt as if he’d gained nothing in return.  
  
_Lecter watched him as he got ready to leave, as he searched for his glasses, as he sorted himself quickly in the mirror._ It felt deliberate, but in a way he wasn’t sure how to quantify. There was a part of him that was almost completely sure that even if he had not confronted Lecter earlier that the man would still have been doing exactly what he now was. _Bug in a jar._

The door was opening and he was making to step outside into the crisp winter morning when he was stopped by a smooth voice asking the question he had dreaded.

“And if I were to mention Abigail to Jack Crawford?” Lecter sounded utterly calm and composed, as if he were merely putting forward dinner options.

Will turned to look at him, unable to keep his face so serene as the doctor was capable of, “Well then, I can tell by the fact that you’d even ask that you’ve clearly never pissed off a witch,” he said with as much of a venomous barb as he could muster.  
  
And then he was gone, out the back door and down into the garden where he had heard Abigail slip minutes before. Taking a deep breath, he walked out onto the grass, a niggling at the back of his mind that wondered if he would ever be comfortable dealing with Lecter. _No matter how much he wanted to like him, something instinctual always flared up like a warning._ He shook his head and tried his very best to ignore it.  
  
She was sitting in the middle of the grassy lawn, cross legged with her back to him. As he approached she did not flinch, nor did she acknowledge him. Her fall of dark hair stayed still as a beam of light through the clouds, wavering but never breaking.  
  
The thought. The very thought of it made Will’s blood stutter in his veins. _Losing her, seeing her taken away to the Registry,_ _or worse the Facility,_ _losing control of keeping her safe from harm_. It hurt. He hadn’t been prepared for how much it hurt.

“Abigail,” he said softly as he reached her; when she didn’t reply he walked around to face her, hunkering down.  
  
Eyes staring down at hands; hands holding a flower-head, a dahlia, red and white petals plucked from Lecter’s impressive display. Will licked his lips and felt his eye twitch, rubbing at it with distracted fingers.  
  
“Abigail, I just wanted you to know that…”  
  
“It’s dead now,” she interrupted, “no matter how much energy I give it.”  
  
Will swallowed, “Yeah,” he nodded finally, “yeah that’s right.”  
  
“You can teach me, can’t you.”  
  
Not even a question, a statement. It would have been easier to ask what she meant, but also damning. _He knew what she was asking, and it made his skin crawl._  
  
“I’m the one that decides who learns what,” he said sternly, “and right now,” he said pulling a small book from his pocket, “you are going to study this.”

That she took it was helpful, but the empty look she gave _The Almanac of the Adept_ wasn’t so much.  
  
“What’s it about?”  
  
“You’ll find out when you read it,” Will countered.  
  
“Will it teach me?” she asked, “How to speak to..?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Will said decisively, “that sort of magic, it’s not for you.”  
  
“But it’s for you, huh?” she said, steely eyed, hurt, “you get to talk to the dead, but I have to stay here, alone forever !”  
  
“We’re all alone, no matter what,” he said, standing, feeling jittery as she continued to watch him, “it doesn’t help, speaking to them. It only keeps the pain fresh.”

“But you can, can’t you? You could find mom,” she said, a pleading lilt to her voice that made Will’s heart sink, “you could ask her what happened, I could speak to her, I could..!”  
  
“ Please, Abigail, I need you to focus on your studies.”  
  
“Fuck you!” she snapped, tears springing to her eyes, “why are you doing this to me?”  
  
“Because this is how things work,” he stated strongly, forcing the hurt and the guilt down, deep down until he could barely feel it stabbing at his heart, “people die, others mourn, and the world goes on without them. Looking back will only lead to torment. Listen to me,” he bent down once more, taking the dahlia head in his fingers, watching it wilt as the magic that was preserving it began to fade, “if this is going to work, I need you to trust me, alright?”  
  
For a moment, a sweet moment, Will thought he had gotten through to her. Made sense to her damaged mind, desperate to find the past and scared to see the future. But the acceptance he thought he’d seen turned out to be nothing but a vicious smile, dark eyes. Will swallowed and bore it as Abigail stared him in the eye and spoke words that told the story of his life from a young age. One of fear and mistrust, ignorance and destruction.

“You know, I said to you not long after we met that a woman in the market had told me there was a witch at Wolf Trap who had a habit of collecting strays? Someone I could trust, that would teach me and help me? Well that’s not true. I was the one, I asked her that, I had heard of you and she...she told me that you were no witch. That there was a necromancer in the Wold Trap woods and that I should stay as far away from you as I could."

* * *

* * *

_The extensive grounds gave the facility the feel of a manor house, the stately homes facade and well trimmed gardens for the recuperating to wander; with supervision, of course.  
  
Today was Thursday, Jack thought to himself as he wondered up the steps. He liked to think in terms of weekdays, not dates. Weekdays told him what was on the menu at the Baltimore Facility _ _for the Study of Supranatural Criminality_ _. Dates were more damning._ _Dates told him how long it had been since his first visit. Matthew, one of the ward assistants, nodded to Jack as he headed in to reception.  
  
That he knew almost all the staff by name also pricked at his calm.  
  
The nurse at the front desk of the cavernous entrance hall made up his visitor’s badge, her face never deigning to look friendly, not even a small smile had ever graced her lips. The footsteps of people wandering the halls beyond clicked and clacked across stone hallways. The light was bright and jarring on the eyes. The smell was of disinfectant and hopelessness.  
  
He hated this place.  
  
“How’s Will today?” Jack asked, more as something to say so their encounter wasn’t as awkward as it usually was.  
  
“No significant changes,” the nurse said, her blue eyes clinical as she regarded him, “but at least you’ll have some company for your visit today. Make things a little easier.”  
  
“I’ll have..? What do you mean company?” Jack asked with a frown, taken aback.  
  
“_ _Mr. Graham has a visitor today…” she s_ _aid_ _, looking startled when Jack began hurrying away towards the wards, “Director Verger_ _gave their approval_ _!” she called after him, huffing at his rudeness.  
  
He followed the well worn path through the Facility on rash feet, the weight of culpability heavy on his shoulders. Two months now, two whole, long months since he’d called the ambulance, since he’d met with the FBI Inspector General’s Office and the Directorship of the Facility, since he’d picked up the pen and signed Will Graham’s life away on a hope, a vain hope, that this could undo all the damage he had allowed to happen.  
  
And now he felt like what little control he thought he had was slipping. Will was falling further and further into the mass of madness that this place confirmed, and Jack was beginning to wonder if the Director wanted to cure Will so much as they wanted to study him.  
  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Crawford,” Billy, the ward keeper, stepped out of his booth and held up his hand as Jack approached at a trot, “Will already has a visitor. You know the rules, _ _only one at a time_ _.”  
  
“Who the _ hell _okayed this? I did not...I was not informed..!” Jack sputtered, handing over his gun and his badge; Billy_ _hesitated, “Come on man, get me the talisman and let me in there, or so help me I will have your job!”  
  
The man’s lips thinned and he stood up to his full height, shoulders back, but took Jack’s offered items nonetheless. Muttering as he fished out a warding talisman, he handed it over to Jack, speaking through a tight jaw. The small straw doll he was handed was rudimentary and smelled foul; he had never had the inclination to ask why.  
  
“You know how it works, keep that on you at all times. Without it there’s not protection if Mr. Graham decides to…”  
  
“I get it, Billy, now will you..?” Jack butted in.  
  
Only both of their mouths were kicked shut by a sound from down the long corridor; a sound of sliding metal grating, then the tuft of something soft falling to the floor. Frowning, Jack followed Billy as he walked, then jogged, then ran, towards the door Jack wished he wasn’t.  
  
“Miss Bloom!” Billy was shouting, knocking on the door, “Come outside now please, Miss Bloom!”  
  
And there, on the floor, was an identical little wicker doll as Jack had moments ago _ _put_ _into his pocket. The sliding hole in the door used to pass food and items was just closing as he arrived, while Billy fumbled with his keys. Jack was able to push in and look through the dimpled glass of the door while Billy panicked, mumbling about talismans and warding and spells.  
  
But the face that greeted him through that small panel of glass wasn’t panicked, wasn’t worried or hurt. The face was serene, framed by curtains of shoulder length dark hair that set off her porcelain skin, and eyes that seemed to see the humour in their _ _overreaction_ _rather than the danger of her own situation.  
  
“_ _Please,” her muffled voice said from beyond the door, “I’d rather talk to Will without any barriers. That’s our choice. I’d rather you honoured it.”  
  
And in that moment, as Billy fumbled with the lock and was amazed that it would not open to any of the keys he tried, Jack Crawford felt the polarising grip of both indignant anger and utter relief; anger that someone would dare undermine his authority about treating someone under his care, relief that Will appeared to have attracted the help of someone just as reckless and hard-headed as he was himself.  
_ _  
Someone who Jack hoped beyond hope could make sense of the terror and remorse that was eating the man alive from the inside out._

* * *

  
The house looked just as he’d expected it to: unremarkable. Will tended to find that Unnaturals tried their best not to bring attention to themselves in every aspect of their lives. Their clothing was dull and ordinary, some middle of the road branded shoes, their haircuts, their cars, their domiciles, everything was a smoke screen. And the Hobbs residence was no exception.  
Will should know. He did the same thing himself.  
  
The sound of Beverly yanking up the handbrake and unbuckling he seatbelt drew Will from his thoughts in the back seat. He realised he was still holding his cellphone in his hand, _had been trying to call his Matron Hannah since that morning, but still all he got was voicemail._  
  
He sat for a little while as Katz and Zeller got out of the car and began changing into their Tyvek, _staring at the modest garden now thick with_ _tall_ _weeds, the drawn curtains,_ _the look of disrepair,_ _no car in the driveway._ He got out of the car slowly, as if he could delay the inevitable for as long as possible, and knew that when they knocked on the door…  
  
“No one home,” he muttered staring at the house, accusatory; Zeller looked up with a frown as he clipped closed his kit box.  
  
“Maybe they’re just out,” Beverly shrugged, “their daughter’s missing, right? Probably out trying to find her.”  
  
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it,” Brian asked him seriously.  
  
It had always been difficult. He didn’t make friends, even when he had been younger, _less jaded, less unhappy,_ _less dangerous_. People just didn’t get it, and it had taken a long time to come to terms with that. People just didn’t get him, and that was that. Until Lass, _with her boundless optimism_ , until Alana, _with her dogged determinedness,_ and now Lecter, _with his like-mindedness._ And here he thought another anomaly might have popped up in his mainly flat landscape; the last sort he’d expected.  
  
“Yeah,” he replied as Beverly looked a little startled, back and forth between himself and Zeller, “I don’t like it.”  
  
“We should go in,” Brian continued without hesitation.  
  
“Break in,” Beverly clarified, unimpressed, “what the hell has gotten into you?”  
  
“He’s right,” Will said quickly.  
  
“Damn straight,” Brian said, giving them no time to argue as he marched up to the door and started expertly jimmying the lock.  
  
They stood together and watched, Will with appreciation for the man’s tenacity, Beverly seemingly flabbergasted by everything that had just occurred.  
  
“Since when are you two so simpatico?” she asked as she hurried to grab her kit, _even though she didn’t approve, she had enough conviction not to pass up the opportunity_.  
  
“Hell if I know,” Will shrugged, walking with her up the path as he kept an eye out for nosey neighbours.  
  
“Well that’s horseshit,” she said wryly, “considering that stunt you pulled the other day, arguing in front of Jack. What the hell is going on, Will?”  
  
“When I find out,” he said softly as Zeller stood up determinedly and pushed open the door, “I’ll let you know.”  
  
Before the man had a chance to enter Will held his arm out, blocking his path. Wordless acknowledgment, as Zeller stepped back. _A strange scent_ _floating in border of the real and the unreal_. The feel of the outside air meeting the inside air leaving a tang on his tongue. It was simple to recite the spell under his breath.  
  
“Nocht do rúin.”  
  
There was a distinct and sudden smell of sulphur, and Will was only just able to shout ‘ _back!’_ before the doormat sitting just on the inside of the door, sporting an ironic _welcome_ on its beige bristles, burst into flame. Will thought he heard Beverly mutter something foul in fright. Zeller was already running to their car to grab the small fire extinguisher. Will simply smiled grimly as the yellow flames were doused in white smoke and powder, the loud coughing roar of the extinguisher abrasive to his ears. Once everything settled down and the fire was truly dead, Will waved a hand in front of his face to dismiss the floating white debris left behind.  
  
“Well,” he said flatly, “I think I’d better go in first.”  
  
He received no complaints. Yet, beyond the booby trap at the front door, Will found no further impediments. Nothing scrawled into the walls or floors, nothing pressure sensitive, nothing voice activated, no sense of magic anywhere else. When Will called them in Zeller and Katz were still looking distinctly cautious.  
  
Will looked around, “looks like they only had time for one spell, and it wasn’t really much of one anyway.”  
  
“I don’t know, would’ve ruined my day,” Zeller said facetiously, “you’re sure there isn’t anything else waiting to fry us?”  
  
“Ninety nine percent.”  
  
“I’d rather it was one hundred.”  
  
“I always leave one percent,” Will shrugged, “if we do get fucked and I said one hundred then I’d never live it down, now would I.”  
  
“I’m going to speak to the neighbours, see if they have anything useful,” Beverly said, adding with a wry smile, “try not to get yourselves fried now.”  
  
All movements from then on were circumspect, Zeller from fear of further harm but for Will it was something different. It was solemn. Just the one spell at the front door, and the more he studied it the more he realised it hadn’t been freshly laid; there was a reek of decay to it. Old magic, laid long ago to keep out intruders. He ran his finger over the mantelpiece in the living room, finding significant dust there, matching the filthy floorboards and furniture, the black water in the toilet. The fridge was empty except for a packet of eggs in their container and a bottle of ketchup, both intensely out of date. The beds in both bedrooms were unmade and smelled stale. Abigail’s room offered him nothing, bare walls, sparse clothes left hanging in the wardrobe that seemed too small for her lithe frame, a couple of young teen magazines on her night stand that had yellowed with time. The air was thick with dust motes and must. There was no seal to be found.  
  
By the time he met back up with Zeller, Will was grim.  
  
“This place is weird,” was the first thing Brian said as he stared at the living room, “I can’t really find any traces of the normal stuff people leave behind every day. I mean, it feels more like a tomb than a home.”  
  
“That’s because no one’s lived here in years,” Will sighed; Zeller frowned, mouth opening but Will jumped in before he could start, “that trap at the door? It’s years old at least. Put it this way, I think it used to be far more potent than just something to scorch your ankles.”  
  
“So, what?” Zeller asked, trying for cocky but coming off unsure, “You saying that they don’t live here any more? But this place is registered to Garret Hobbs workplace, his pay-check gets sent here. They’re still paying the mortgage for christ’s sakes.”  
  
“Put it this way, Louise Hobbs wasn’t murdered here. There’s no seal, there’s no blood, there’s no evidence of foul play…” the more he explained it, the stranger it became; _was Louise Hobbs even a halfbreed? Why did they display her publicly when all the other kills had been at the victim’s homes?_  
  
“Who knows, maybe her hubby did it. Disposing of the body by adding it to someone else’s murder spree.”  
  
“Weirder things have happened,” Will muttered as he stood by a shelf of small, porcelain curios.  
  
Reaching up he brushed the dust from the head of a small cherubic boy holding a lamb; coming here had been a waste of time, but trying to tell Jack that would have been utterly pointless. _The truth was hiding_ so _mewhere, just out of sight._ In his jacket pocket, his notebook felt heavy. Will shifted his weight from left foot to right, watching Zeller work out the corner of his eye, “hey Brian, have you ever heard of the Amanuensis?”  
  
“Sure I’ve heard of them,” Zeller said, looking frustrated as he tried to life prints from the fridge door handle and failed; giving up he sat down, looking to Will and sighing, “why?”  
  
“Know much about them?”  
  
“No. No one does really. They’re Registry, right? They keep records.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess they do,” Will said cagily; he flicked his eyes to Brian, trying his best to keep the man’s thoughts at bay, “I met one.”  
  
“You…” that garnered his attention, “you met one?”  
  
“Yeah. I went to the Registry with Crawford to get details about Milly Grey-Pelt. I met the Aman. She was...interesting.”  
  
“I’ll bet,” Zeller frowned, “...why are you brining this up now?”  
  
“Because I have a crazy fucking theory and I want to talk to someone about it who might just throw it back in my face and tell me I’m nuts,” Will admitted frankly, “you know Jack. He doesn’t listen to crazy.”  
  
It took a minute for Zeller to react, “Why don’t you bring this up to Bev?”  
  
“She’s too by the book.”  
  
“ _Really?_ And what, I’m not?”  
  
“No, you’re not.”  
  
There was a terse silence, then eventually Brian cracked the smallest of smiles and leaned forwards in his chair, “Ok,” he said, “shoot.”  
  
Pulling his notebook from his inner jacket pocket, Will flicked to the right page and handed it to Zeller. Leaning against the Hobbs’ family worktop and biting his nails he watched Zeller ingest his mad idea. The silence was heavy, mainly because Will was sure he was about to have his thoughts demolished by the heavy hand of logic. Instead, after a few minutes, Zeller closed the notebook, narrowed his eyes and handed it back to Will without looking at him. It took all the willpower he had at that moment not to peek inside Zeller’s head to find out what he was thinking.  
  
“So?” Will asked, running out of patience.  
  
“So,” Brian repeated, “you telling me you think it’s not exactly a coincidence that our victims fall under the remit of this Aman you and Jack visited?”  
  
“That’s the long and short of it,” Will fidgeted, feeling exposed, “fuck’s sake Zeller, either tell me I’m insane or give me your theory, I’m not a patient guy.”  
  
“I’ve noticed,” Zeller said wryly; standing up he walked a few paces in one direction, then the other, “got any idea why these two things would correlate?”  
  
“Not exactly. All I can fathom is that if she is linked, then she’s leaking the personal information of unnaturals, either to our killers or to someone who is then passing that information on.”  
  
“Thinking that’s a good enough reason to pay a visit?”  
  
“You’re taking this unexpectedly well,” Will said suspiciously.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brian frowned, “Hey, you said you wanted to tell me this. I’m not a fucking nark, ok?”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Will said, making Zeller start when Will caught his eye, “prove it.”  
  
“Screw you, Graham,” Zeller said angrily, “I don’t need to cow tow to you.”  
  
“Just shut up and concentrate,” Will bit out, “ok?”  
  
“You’d better not..!”  
  
Zeller was easy to read in a way that Will appreciated in people with logical minds. Everything orderly, filed like an archive. But there was a sweet addendum to the man’s head-space: he was a rebel, and the rebellious side of him liked to clutter, to have curves instead of neat right angles, to present a little flair in his mind that most at the bureau didn’t possess. It was satisfying, made the journey a pleasure rather than a slog.  
  
By the time Will pulled back, Zeller was left looking a little squeamish, breathless.  
  
“What the fuck was that?”  
  
“Don’t get all bent out of shape, I didn’t read your mind. Just took a walk through your emotional centres. No big deal.”  
  
“No big..? Don’t ever do that again!”  
  
“What?” Will grinned, “Like it? I’ve heard it’s quite a rush.”  
  
“Shut your mouth for just one minute, would you _please_.”  
  
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Will said, shrugging.  
  
Zeller had opened his mouth to retort, but luckily for Will Beverly took that moment to return from scouting. From the look in her eyes she knew something weird had happened in her absence, but didn’t bother to bring it up. Instead she looked around the kitchen and frowned.  
  
“Find anything?” she asked.  
  
“Not really,” Brian answered, rubbing at his face, “other than this house has been abandoned for years.”  
  
“Abandoned? Are you sure?” Beverly asked, incredulous even as she took in the dilapidated furniture and dirty floor, “the neighbours on both sides said that they saw the whole family going out to their car just three days ago. One of them said they saw Mr and Mrs. Hobbs just last night. The only thing they said was weird is that they haven’t seen their cat around in a while.”  
  
“Then there’s an illusion spell,” Will shrugged, “probably on the perimeter. Keep nosey neighbours happy,” when Beverly raised her brows Will smirked, “nosey neighbours wouldn’t stand for weeds that long in the garden without complaining, would they? I bet if you ask they’ll say the Hobbs keep a nice mowed lawn.”  
  
“But if they haven’t lived here for years, where have they been?” Zeller asked, before waving a hand and frowning, “wait, are you telling me the Hobbs are witches?”  
  
Wetting his lips, Will forced himself to remain neutral, “Or they hired one. Who knows.”  
  
“Well then, shouldn’t we contact the local coven?” Beverly asked, “They’d have info right? If they were witches, or if not then who they might have hired.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess,” Will said sourly; noticing Katz and Zeller’s inquisitive glances back and forth Will rolled his eyes, “oh for fuck’s sake, I just don’t want to deal with the Maryland Coven. They’re a bunch of sanctimonious pricks.”  
  
“Really?” Zeller said, mouth quirked with reprisal, “I guess you haven’t heard what the Maryland Coven have been saying about you for the past couple of weeks.”  
  
“Well, that insinuates that I give two shits what the MLCV think,” Will said, blasé; when there was a noticeable lull Will sighed, “let me guess,” he continued as he sat down on the arm of a dusty chair, “it was some statement distancing themselves from my sordid self.”  
  
“They said they didn’t condone necromancy,” Zeller said.  
  
“Yeah, only in the last ten years or so,” Will muttered, “before that they had more scars than I do.”  
  
“So you think they’re our best bet?” Beverly asked.  
  
“If we want info, then they’ll at least…” Will started, then suddenly stopped, mouth left hanging open; Zeller and Katz stared at him, frowning worriedly.  
  
For Will he had felt the curtain drop, and the unveiling was sudden and harsh. All he could think about were Beverly’s words from minutes ago: ‘The only thing they said was weird is that they haven’t seen their cat around in a while’. It all began to slot together. The wheels started spinning without his consent. Jessica Salome, tins of cat food on her counter but no cat found at her home. Melinda Inman, there had been a litter box at her house, cat toys, but no cat. In the report it had said Hoit had dog leashes and collars, tennis balls, but the dog had never been found. Jack had assumed the killers were disposing of the pets. Mike’s ghost, telling him the last thing he could remember before his death, ‘A man, a woman and a girl’.  
  
No cat. _The seals, blazoned into the houses_. No dog. _No correlation between victims as to how someone was getting inside_. A man, a woman and a girl. _An unknown intruder with magical ability_. As a sense of dread began to creep across his shoulders, he found the most difficult thing was being the only one in the room who knew the truth.  
  
“It’s nothing,” Will lied easily, shrugging, “we should go, come on.”  
  
It was on returning to the SUV that Will found whatever little composure he’d been able to scrape back disappeared in a puff of smoke. There, as he opened the back door, lay something that gave a reaction he couldn't explain, _made his skin chill to goosebumps, his breathing speed up without his consent_. A plain, manilla envelope emblazoned with only two words: his name, in bold black marker pen. Will swallowed. He had left the window cracked to help air out the car since Zeller had been blasting the heating like crazy and it had made him feel nauseous. _Someone had posted it through like a letterbox._ He looked around the neighbourhood, seeing nothing but the usual suburbia, neutral and staid. No cars out of place, no people lurking.  
  
Reaching out as Zeller and Katz got into the car, oblivious, Will picked up the envelope and bit at his lip, getting into the car and strapping himself in. On top of his many theories about this damnable case, being stalked just put the cherry on the shit sundae. _  
  
_

* * *

_Like hunger pains, only stronger, more pronounced, and with a side of nausea. Will felt the gun dig in against his right palm, nipping at his fingers with cold metal teeth. The wind was buffeting the car again and again, like a cat with a_ _terrified mouse_ _. The sound was obnoxious, the whistling roar, but Will barely heard_ _it_ _. Couldn’t think about it, concentrate on it._

 _Hurricane Irene had never made landfall, but she was making her presence known in the Chesapeake Bay. The docklands were thrilling with wind speeds enough to take your feet from under you. The sea, a gloomy steel grey, was awash with white horses champing and stamping and charging into the dock walls, up and over in plumes fifteen feet high. The lights on the cranes swayed; sometimes he caught sight of something flying through the air, debris big enough to take out an unsuspecting person. The warehouses rattled and rippled, roofs threatening to come loose and fly, the trees bent at unnatural angles.  
  
And somewhere, somewhere here amidst the _ _hellish chaos, was the answer._ _An answer that they had all thought lost, had come to terms with never finding, now dangling in front of them like a carrot on a stick_ _.  
  
For the twentieth time Will fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and tried to dial. The _ _dim_ _light on the cellphone showed nothing but low battery and no signal. With a curse Will threw it onto the passenger seat and took a deep breath.  
  
“The tower’s down, that’s all,” he said to himself, “Jack’s coming, they’re all coming. It’s going to be ok. All be ok,” he muttered as he rubbed at his face, pinching at his eyes until he could see spots fading in and out _ _before opening them again_ _, “just need to…”  
  
His words caught in his throat and Will felt his body involuntarily start forwards and grab the wheel, eyes wide as if to catch what little light there was. There, beyond the thump and whine of the window wipers pushing the rain in rivers across his windshield, was the flitting shape of a human. _ _He was sure, wasn’t he? Not just a trick of his eyes, the lights dancing. No, there it was again!_ _Once, then twice he saw it as it ran behind a crate, then dashed for the warehouse closest to his parking spot. It took every fibre of his being not to jump the gun as the figure opened a door which flew out of its grasp and slammed back against the wall, pinned by the wind. The figure paid no heed, sprinting inside and disappearing.  
  
It was _ _in_ _that moment Will’s moral fibre gave out.  
  
The wind was blinding, _ _forcing him to lift his arms to cover his face as he ran blindly. The rain was painful and freezing, soaking through his jacket, his shirt, his jeans and leaving him a sodden, chattering mess by the time he weaved and pushed his way to the door he had seen. He did not enter so much as he was pushed inside by the storm. Standing inside the doorway Will lowered his arms to find that he was shaking, and that his eyes weren’t taking time to adjust so much as there was nothing to adjust to; everything was pitch black. Behind him the wind howled a_ _t_ _the open doorway, like the sound of someone blowing across the neck of a bottle. With cold fingers he hunted for his flashlight, finding it and clicking it on.  
  
It was a corridor, but something about it felt more like a tunnel. The floor was beginning to run with water being pushed in from outside. The air was cold and damp and the _ _light didn’t seem to reach far, as if the atmosphere was thick with fog. Will clutched at his jacket with his free hand and took two long breaths as he moved the light around, fidgeting on his feet.  
  
“Don’t go in without back up,” he was whispering to himself, “she wouldn’t go in without back up. You idiot, you fucking idiot no one will know where you are…”  
  
But at the same time his need to run in without thinking was horrifyingly strong. So strong that it hurt to turn and run back to his car, tripping and falling once, banging himself into _ _his car_ _twice. Still no signal_ _on the phone_ _. The best he could think to do was turn the_ _key_ _and drive his car up to the door, leaving the engine purring and the headlights on, illuminating the maw-like doorway for all to see._ _A last ditch effort to leave breadcrumbs._ _  
_ _  
Echoing_ _as he walked_ _. His footsteps splashed, and the sound_ _bounced around_ _as if cavernous even_ _though_ _the corridor stayed narrow and fearfully dark. There was a right turn, then a left, then he was faced with a choice; a staircase leading up, and another down. Standing still, Will strained to listen for footsteps or noises of any kind. It was only then that he realised how deadened the air around him had become. There was no noise. The raging of the storm had disappeared. The wind, the rain, the tumultuous sea. There was nothing beyond the sound of his own breathing.  
  
“Fuck,” Will muttered to himself as he routed in his pocket for the thing he had kept on him since she had first handed it over; he remembered how smug _ _Miriam_ _had been,_ _amking a quip about him being barely able to find his ass with both hands most of the time_ _. The St. Christopher medallion shone in his_ _palm_ _as he stared at it, mumbling, “Ba mhaith leat lámh an úinéara a mhothú arís.”  
  
Immediately, without any hesitation, the small, silver medallion sped from his palm and hit the floor running, _ _hurrying_ _its way to the stairs and making a considered effort to stay upright and rolling as it_ _began to tinkle_ _down the stairs. Will kept after it like a dog handler with a bloodhound._ _They must have gone down three flights before they reached another doorway, this one closed tight._ _In the back of his mind Will felt chill at the thought of a warehouse with a three storey basement, trying and failing to register if the space he was now in existed at all or was merely an illusion, an extension through magic._ _  
  
The small medallion was leaping up and rolling into the door, _ _but_ _just as Will arrived and made to pick it up the medallion managed to flop onto its side and slip under the doorway. Will bit out a curse as the coin slipped away.  
  
“_ _Shit!” he hurried up from his crouch and tried the handle, expecting it to be locked, only…  
  
It swung open without any effort. Breathing hard, Will licked his lips and aimed the flashlight low at the ground. _ _The air felt thick as he walked in as quietly as he could, humid and yet chill. Without daring to raise the light to illuminate the room it was difficult to tell how big the space was. All he could do was listen carefully, waiting, waiting…  
  
There! The unmistakable sound of a coin falling and spinning on the ground, the wobbling of metal against stone as it _ _spun faster and faster before ringing to a close. Will hurried forwards, the air itself seeming to putrefy as he came closer to his goal.  
  
“_ _Miriam,” he hissed, feeling as if the air itself swallowed his words, holding them hostage, “_ Miriam! _”  
  
“..._ _pf-_ _lease…” came the faint,_ _muffled_ _reply.  
  
For a moment, Will thought he might have imagined it. But his feel carried him forwards, and his heart leapt as the light illuminated the stone plinth that appeared before him, _ _the St Christopher coin shining brightly at its base,_ _and atop it an arm, then a body, then a face as he nearly tripped running forwards.  
  
“I don’t believe it,” he was huffing, _ _almost_ _dropping his flashlight, lifting it and shining it down onto something he wished he’d never seen,_ _could forget, would not haunt his waking life from then on_ _.  
  
Milky eyes stared up at him as a rotten hand reached for his jacket, fingers curling in and snapping _ _off, a hideous croaking leaving her throat as_ _t_ _he ruined mouth, sewn almost shut with blood encrusted thread, pried open and breathed out t_ _hree wheezing_ _words.  
_ _**  
“** _ _**Make it** _ _**end** _ _**.”** _

* * *

“The little pissant called an assembly without me!”  
  
As Bedelia yanked the door of the Bentley shut behind her and pulled down her seatbelt she threw her half closed umbrella into the footwell; Hannibal sighed through his nose and indicated back out into traffic. He hated the rain, it was terribly inconvenient. Caused people to subvert their usual patterns, brought down their moods and generally made a mess. Today of all days it was going to make his next venture just that little bit harder.  
  
“Chilton is flexing his new claws, I see,” Hannibal said neutrally.  
  
“Don’t start with me, Hannibal. I don’t need your running commentary.”  
  
“You are well aware of my habits,” Hannibal turned out onto Eastern Avenue and slowed at the lights, “if you did not want to hear my thoughts, you wouldn’t have brought it up.”  
  
“Sometimes a lady just likes to vent, without narration. Now can you take me to pick up my car and just _listen_ for once.”  
  
Smiling, Hannibal looked to her and inclined his head. _Such a delightfully vain and caustic creature under all that charm and elegance, it was what had drawn him in, what had made him want her_ _so_ _all those years ago._ She watched him suspiciously, but then seemed to tire of waiting and carried on regardless.  
  
“He called everyone in, all his little foolish cronies. They met at his place and, you won’t believe this…”  
  
“Murdered Louise Hobbs in his own home before displaying her corpse in St. Mary’s park.”  
  
Her shock was sweet enough to risk the venom that would surely follow. Hannibal drank it in like ambrosia.  
  
“Fucking hell Hannibal, can’t you let me have anything?” she spat, “And how the hell do you know that?”  
  
“I think I’d rather ask how _you_ know.”  
  
“I’m giving you enough as it is,” she huffed, “I’m not going to give away my sources.”  
  
“Well, you already know mine. The murder site was just an educated guess. Chilton doesn’t care about bloodying his own nest, and it would allow for full control of the carnage.”  
  
“You think they passed her around like take out?” Bedelia asked.  
  
“Why ask when you are sure of the answer?”  
  
She shrugged, “I just like to hear you try and fathom out things I already know.”  
  
“Oh? Although, I am sure I have something very interesting that you do not, my dear.”  
  
Quick blue eyes, regarding him sharply. He figured that her venomous bluster had been mainly an act, but was yet to figure out exactly what she was trying to subvert. Keeping quiet as he drove was the easiest way to tease out her curiosity.  
  
“Oh come on,” she said finally, rolling her eyes, “you don’t give anything away for free. What do you want?”  
  
“You wound me, darling,” he said, feigning hurt, “and I love it so.”  
  
“Get over yourself, will you? And hurry up with it, we’re almost at my dealership. Piece of shit Mercedes does nothing but break down.”  
  
“Actually, I had thought you might prefer a quick jaunt before collecting your, as you say, piece of shit.”  
  
Silence, broken only by the thud and whine of window wipers. Bedelia took a long break, gave a quick, unreadable smirk and looked at him, narrow eyed. Hannibal dismissed most of her smoke and mirrors and, instead, waited for her reply.  
  
“I should have known you wouldn’t give me a ride without a fee.”  
  
“Sometimes assistance is more precious than money.”  
  
“What is it this time?”  
  
“I need your help with a dinner invitation,” Hannibal said, knowing she would understand.  
  
“Oh, no way, not for the price of a _car ride_ ,” she said, dubious.  
  
“I can sweeten the pot.”  
  
“It better be honey sweet,” she said, surly.  
  
“Only the best. I am sure I have something you can lord over our little king Chilton.”  
  
That had her attention. Licking gently at her painted red lips, Bedelia settled back into the plush car seat and folded her hands in her lap.  
  
“Go on.”  
  
“Mine first, then yours.”  
  
“Nice try,” she said dryly, “think I’m going to take you at your word?”  
  
“You would like assurance? Well, I’m sure I can give you a name to tempt out your hunting instinct,” Hannibal said as they sped past the Mercedes Benz dealership in a flash of tires and spattered rain, “Abigail Hobbs.”  
  
Instantaneous; _he could see her pupils dilate, nostrils flaring ever so subtly_. Then she was once more calm, serene, even as she bit at the inside of her cheek.  
  
“What about her?” she asked.  
  
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”  
  
“Yes. I would.”  
  
“Then can I rely on your assistance?” Hannibal asked.  
  
“Have I ever let you down?” she asked with a knowing smile.  
  
That they both laughed at the joke made the air sour on Hannibal’s tongue. _Memories of her betrayal, hot and slick._ The sweetness would come when this was all over, when all of the wrongs had been righted, and all of the venom was back in the fangs from which it came.  
  
When the teacup was once again whole.

* * *

His fingers were shaking, and he couldn’t tell quite why. The first room on the right on the third floor; _a small room used for meetings, no windows, a door that locked_. Hustling into the dark room allowed him to slip away as Katz and Zeller headed off to find Jack and give their report. Closing his eyes Will leaned his back against the door and swallowed, reaching up blindly to flip the light switch. The envelope slid across the table he threw it onto. Will licked his lips and looked at it sceptically.  
  
“Been following me, huh?” he spoke to it, circling round, grabbing a nearby chair by the back and drawing it across the carpeted floor, “Don’t want to be seen, but you’re desperate to show me something.”  
  
Sitting down was precise and yet nerve racking. _What if this was from their killers? What if this was a trap?_ He should have handed it in, he should have had the scryers make sure it hadn’t been tampered with. _Why didn’t you, huh?_ he asked himself. Only it was an empty question. Will already knew that the silent envelope spoke of secrets, he could feel it in the way his name was written big and bold on the paper.  
  
It ripped open just like any other envelope, even as he did so hesitantly. Will tipped it up and a slew of papers and photographs slid out in a slurry across the tabletop. Frowning he put the envelope down and picked up a the topmost photo. At first he didn’t recognise the woman there, but then as his mind adjusted the figure took shape.  
  
“Hannah?” Will muttered.  
  
Many years younger, and in a group of women he didn’t know, but it was her; his Matron, proud in her bearing, eyes sharp. She wore a pair of ratty jeans and a flannel shirt, hair cut short. Next to her were two women who appeared to be identical twins, long blonde hair, expressions rather shy. And then on the end was another, dark curly hair and full lips, eyes avoiding the camera as she appeared to look at something behind the picture taker. Turning it over, Will found two words:  
  
‘ _Already pregnant’_  
  
Something in the scrawled ink set the hairs at the nape of his neck on edge. Will let the photo drop and sat back, fingers curling around the edge of the table. There was an awful sense of dread tickling across his skin, like vertigo. Will reached for his phone and hit his calls, tapping the most recent while his eyes scanned what he could see of the documents splayed across the table. When the phone was answered Will was taken aback, expecting to hear the voicemail message.  
  
“Will?” Hannah answered.  
  
“It’s me,” he said, not knowing why; he felt unsure, lost, “I’ve been calling you.”  
  
“They told me I had to turn my phone off. Where are you?”  
  
“They told..? Who told you?” Will frowned, shaking his head and rubbing at his eyes, “Hannah, I need to talk to you, something’s happening and I...god I don’t know…”  
  
“Calm down young man,” no matter what, her stern voice always managed to centre him, “you’re darn right something’s going on. You have some explaining to do alright.”  
  
“Me? What the heck are you talking about? I’ve just had…”  
  
“Never mind that, I don’t like speaking about important things over the phone. Come down and get me?”  
  
“Jesus, Hannah, you’re driving me crazy here, what the fuck are you talking about?” Will groaned.  
  
“ _Language_ William! They won’t let me in at the desk. The woman here is being very obstinate.”  
  
And it was then Will realised. Frowning turned to confusion turned to wide eyed realisation. In only a few seconds Will had swept up the contents of the envelope, tapped them messily together and stuffed them back into the manilla. Everything seemed to be spiralling out of his control, bouncing on his feet as he rode down in the elevator. People swerved out of his way as he ran towards the front door, dodging through as he caught bits and pieces of thoughts and feelings, ‘ _watch where you’re going, christ!’, ‘would it kill you to say sorry?’._  
  
There was no time to contemplate rudeness. Will was left standing on the other side of the metal detectors, out of breath and staring in disbelief at the wizened old woman currently arguing with Gale, the security guard at the front desk. When she looked up and caught sight of him she thinned her lips triumphantly and pointed.  
  
“There he is, he’ll sort out this silly misunderstanding,” Hannah said, bright eyes shining, “I told you, young lady, _my son_ works here.”

* * *

The fluorescent lights plinked and buzzed into life. Hannibal frowned in displeasure, thinking to himself that he should look at replacing them soon before they blew at an inopportune moment. Nothing worse than trying to work by candlelight. _Although_ , he thought as he slipped his arms into the vinyl suit, making sure to keep his tartan jacket from riding up in the sleeves, _it would bring back memories._  
  
As he zipped up the front he took a moment to inspect his tray, _scalpel, arterial and bone clamps, forceps and cotton swabs, elevators, needle holders, bone saw, finochietto retractor._ Bedelia was as excellent a nurse as she was a decoy. _Watching her work in tandem with his own machinations was always a charming experience, as they had walked into the secure residence without any resistance whatsoever and then back out with exactly what they needed._ He had told her what he planned, and she had laid out everything he would want.  
  
“The Registry will find out what you have done,” came the calm declaration from the woman strapped down to his operating table, “they always do.”  
  
“Ah, but then I am counting on it,” Hannibal replied as he set about preparing a drip, “you of all people should understand why.”  
  
“You are afraid,” she said, her dark eyes moving from their blank stare at the ceiling to focus on him, “that he will find out what you are doing. And what you have done.”  
  
“Afraid is a relative term,” Hannibal said, sniffing as he pressed the needle into her arm, “Now, Dr. Unger,” he said as he taped the cannula into place, cocking his head as he looked into her eyes and observed the lack of emotion, no fear, no panic, only the weight imposed by more time than should be experienced by one soul, “if you will permit me, a few questions before you go.”  
  
The dark eyes returned their stare to the ceiling as the procedure began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nocht do rúin"  
> Reveal your secrets
> 
> "Ba mhaith leat lámh an úinéara a mhothú arís"  
> You want to feel your owner's hand again


End file.
